Hieronimo.
It was a man, sure, that was hang'd up here,
A youth, as I remember: I cut him down.
If it should prove my son now after all,
Say you, say you! light, lend me a taper;
Let me look again.
O God! confusion, mischief, torment, death and hell,
Drop all your stings at once in my cold bosom,
That now is stiff with horror; kill me quickly:
Be gracious to me, thou infective night,
And drop this deed of murder down on me;
Gird in my waste of grief with thy large darkness,
And let me not survive to see the light,
May put me in the mind I had a son.
Isabella.
O sweet Horatio! O my dearest son!
Hieronimo.
How strangely had I lost my way to grief!]
Sweet lovely rose, ill-pluck'd before thy time,
Fair worthy son, not conquer'd, but betray'd,
I'll kiss thee now, for words with tears are stay'd.
Isabella.
And I'll close up the glasses of his sight,
For once these eyes were only[132] my delight.
Hieronimo.
Seest thou this handkerchief besmear'd with blood?
It shall not from me, till I take revenge:
Seest thou those wounds, that yet are bleeding fresh?
I'll not entomb them, till I have revenge:[133]
Then will I joy amidst my discontent;
Till then my sorrow[134] never shall be spent.