The Spanish Tragedie.
Hor. O stay awhile, and I will die with thee.
So shalt thou yeeld, and yet haue conquered me.
So shalt thou yeeld, and yet haue conquered me.
Bel. Who's there, Pedringano? We are betraide.
Enter Lorenzo, Balthazar, Cerberine, Pedringano disguised.
Lor. My Lord, away with her, take her aside.
O, sir, forbeare, your valour is alreadie tride.
They hang him in the Arbor.Quickely dispatch, my masters.
O, sir, forbeare, your valour is alreadie tride.
They hang him in the Arbor.Quickely dispatch, my masters.
Hor. What, will ye murder me?
Lor. I thus, and thus: these are the fruites of loue.
They stab him.
They stab him.
Bal. O saue his life, and let me die for him:
O, saue him brother; saue him Balthazar:
I loued Horatio, but he loued not me.
O, saue him brother; saue him Balthazar:
I loued Horatio, but he loued not me.
Balt. But Balthazar loues Bel-imperia.
Lor. Although his life were still ambitious proud,
Yet is he at the highest now he is dead.
Yet is he at the highest now he is dead.
Bel. Murder, murder, helpe Hieronimo helpe.
Lor. Come, stop her mouth; away with her.
Enter Hieronimo in his shirt.
Hier. What out-crie cals me from my naked bed.
And chill my throbbing heart with trembling feare,
Which neuer danger yet could daunt before:
Who cals Hieronimo? speake, heare I am,
I did not slumber therefore twas no dreame.
No, no, it was some woman cride for helpe,
And here within the garden did she cry,
And in this garden must I rescue her.
But stay, what murderous spectacle is this?
A man hangde vp and all the murderers gone,
And in my bower, to lay the guilt on me.
This place was made for pleasure not for death.
He cuts him downe.
Those garments that he weares I oft haue seen:
Alas, it is Horatio my sweet sonne,
O no, but he that whilome was my sonne.
O, was it thou that call'dst me from my bed,
O, speake if any sparke of life remaine.
And chill my throbbing heart with trembling feare,
Which neuer danger yet could daunt before:
Who cals Hieronimo? speake, heare I am,
I did not slumber therefore twas no dreame.
No, no, it was some woman cride for helpe,
And here within the garden did she cry,
And in this garden must I rescue her.
But stay, what murderous spectacle is this?
A man hangde vp and all the murderers gone,
And in my bower, to lay the guilt on me.
This place was made for pleasure not for death.
He cuts him downe.
Those garments that he weares I oft haue seen:
Alas, it is Horatio my sweet sonne,
O no, but he that whilome was my sonne.
O, was it thou that call'dst me from my bed,
O, speake if any sparke of life remaine.
I am
