But now what follows for[310] Hieronimo?
Hieronimo.
Marry, this follows for Hieronimo:
Here break we off our sundry languages,
And thus conclude I in our vulgar tongue.
Happily you think (but bootless are[311] your thoughts)
That this is fabulously counterfeit;
And that we do as all tragedians do,
To die to-day for fashioning our scene
(The death of Ajax or some Roman peer),
And in a minute starting up again,
Revive to please to-morrow's audience:
No, princes; know I am Hieronimo,
The hopeless father of a hapless son,
Whose tongue is tun'd[312] to tell his latest tale,
Not to excuse gross errors in the play.
I see, your looks urge instance of these words;
Behold the reason urging me to this:
[He shows his dead son.
See here my show, look on this spectacle;
Here lay my hope, and here my hope hath end:
Here lay my heart, and here my heart was slain:
Here lay my treasure, here my treasure lost:
Here lay my bliss, and here my bliss bereft:
But hope, heart, treasure, joy, and bliss,
All fled, fail'd, died: yea, all decay'd with this.
From forth these wounds came breath that gave me life;
They murder'd me, that made these fatal marks:
The cause was love, whence grew this mortal hate;
The hate, Lorenzo and young Balthazar;
The love, my son to Bell'-Imperia:
But night, the coverer of accursed crimes,
With pitchy silence hush'd these traitors'[313] harms,
And lent them leave, for they had sorted[314] leisure
To take advantage in my garden-plot
Upon my son, my dear Horatio:
There merciless they butcher'd up my boy,
In black dark night, to pale dim cruel death.
He shrieks, I heard; and yet (methinks) I hear
His dismal outcry echo in the air:
With soonest speed I hasted to the noise;
Where hanging on a tree I found my son,
Through girt with wounds, and slaughter'd as you see:
And griev'd I, think you, at this spectacle?
Speak, Portugal, whose loss resembles[315] mine,
If thou canst weep upon thy Balthazar,
'Tis like I wail'd[316] for my Horatio.—
And you, my lord, whose reconciled son
March'd in a net, and thought himself unseen,
And rated me for brainsick lunacy,
With[317]—God, amend that mad Hieronimo!
How can you brook our play's catastrophe?
And here behold this bloody handkerchief,
Which at Horatio's death I, weeping, dipp'd
Within the river of his bleeding wounds:
It as propitious, see, I have reserved,[318]
And never hath it left my bloody[319] heart,
Soliciting remembrance of my vow
With these, O, these accursed murderers.
Which now perform'd my heart is satisfi'd.
And to this end the bashaw I became,
That might revenge me on Lorenzo's life;
Who therefore was appointed to the part,
And was to represent the Knight of Rhodes,
That I might kill him more conveniently:—
So, Viceroy, was this Balthazar thy son,
That Solyman, which Bell'-Imperia,
In person of Perseda, murdered,
Solely appointed to that tragic part,
That she might slay him that offended her.
Poor Bell'-Imperia miss'd her part in this;
For though the story say'th, she should have died,
Yet I of kindness, and of care to her,
Did otherwise determine of her end;
But love of him, whom they did hate too[320] much,
Did urge her resolution to be such.—
And, princes, now behold Hieronimo,
Author and actor in this tragedy,
Bearing his latest fortune in his fist;
And will as resolute conclude his part,
As any of the actors gone before.
And, gentles,[321] thus I end my play.
Urge no more words: I have no more to say.
[He runs to hang himself.
King.
O, hearken, Viceroy. Hold, Hieronimo!
Brother, my nephew and thy son are slain.
Viceroy.
We are betrayed; my Balthazar is slain!
Break ope the doors; run, save Hieronimo.
[They run in and hold Hieronimo.
Hieronimo, do but inform the king of these events;
Upon mine honour, thou shalt have no harm.