The Spanish Tragedie.
Hiero. True, all Spaine takes note of it.
Besides he is so generally beloued,
His Maiestie the other day did grace him
With waiting on his cup: these be fauours
Which doe assure me he cannot be short liued.
Besides he is so generally beloued,
His Maiestie the other day did grace him
With waiting on his cup: these be fauours
Which doe assure me he cannot be short liued.
Isa. Sweet Hieronimo.
Hiero. I wonder how this fellow got his clothes:
Syrah, sitha, Ile know the trueth of all:
Iaques, runne to the Duke of Castiles presently.
And bid my sonne Horatio to come home.
I, and his mother haue had strange dreames to night.
Doe you heare me sir?
Syrah, sitha, Ile know the trueth of all:
Iaques, runne to the Duke of Castiles presently.
And bid my sonne Horatio to come home.
I, and his mother haue had strange dreames to night.
Doe you heare me sir?
Iaques. I, sir.
Hiero. Well sir, begon. Pedro, come hither knowest thou who this is.
Ped. Too well, sir.
Hiero. Too well, who? who is it? Peace, Isabella: Nay blush not man.
Ped. It is my Lord, Horatio.
Hor. Ha, ha, Saint Iames, but this doth make me laugh,
That there are more deluded then my selfe.
That there are more deluded then my selfe.
Ped. Deluded?
Hier. I, I would haue sworne my selfe within this houre,
That this had beene my sonne Horatio,
His garments are so like. Ha, are they not great perswasions.
That this had beene my sonne Horatio,
His garments are so like. Ha, are they not great perswasions.
Isa. O would to God it were not so.
Hier. Were not, Isabella, doest thou dreame it is?
Can thy soft bosome intertaine a thought,
That such a blacke deede of mischiefe should be done,
On one so poore and spotles as our sonne?
Away, I am ashamed.
Can thy soft bosome intertaine a thought,
That such a blacke deede of mischiefe should be done,
On one so poore and spotles as our sonne?
Away, I am ashamed.
Isa. Deare Hieronimo, cast a more serious eye vpon thy griefe
Weake apprehension giues but weake beleife.
Weake apprehension giues but weake beleife.
Hier. It was a man sure that was hanged vp here,
A youth, as I remember, I cut him downe:
If it should prooue my sonne now after all,
Say you, say you, light: lend me a Taper,
Let me looke againe.
O God, confusion, mischiefe, torment, death and hell,
A youth, as I remember, I cut him downe:
If it should prooue my sonne now after all,
Say you, say you, light: lend me a Taper,
Let me looke againe.
O God, confusion, mischiefe, torment, death and hell,
Drop
