What world of grief! my son Horatio!
O, where's the author of this endless woe?
Hieronimo.
To know the author were some ease of grief,
For in revenge my heart would find relief.
Isabella.
Then is he gone? and is my son gone too?
O, gush out, tears, fountains and floods of tears;
Blow, sighs, and raise an everlasting storm;
For outrage fits our cursed wretchedness.
[Aye me,[131] Hieronimo, sweet husband, speak!
Hieronimo.
He supp'd with us to-night, frolic and merry,
And said he would go visit Balthazar
At the duke's palace: there the prince doth lodge.
He had no custom to stay out so late,
He may be in his chamber; some go see—Roderigo, ho.
Isabella.
Aye me, he raves! sweet Hieronimo!