King.
What, dost thou[327] mock us, slave? Bring tortures forth.
Hieronimo.
Do, do, do; and meantime I'll torture you.
You had a son, as I take it; and your son
Should have been married to your daughter: ha, was't not so?
You had a son too, he was my liege's nephew:
He was proud and politic: had he liv'd,
He might ha' come to wear the crown of Spain:
I think 'twas so; 'twas I that killed him,
Look you, this same hand was it that stabb'd
His heart—do you see this hand?—
For one Horatio, if you ever knew him?
A youth—one that they hang'd up in his father's garden:
One that did force your valiant son to yield,
While your valiant son did take him prisoner.
Viceroy.
Be deaf, my senses; I can hear no more.
King.
Fall, heaven, and cover us with thy sad ruins.
Roll all the world within thy pitchy cloud.