The Spanish Tragedy

I have already found a stratagem,
To sound the bottom of this doubtful theme.
My lord, for once you shall be ruled by me:
Hinder me not whate’er you hear or see.
By force or fair means will I cast about
To find the truth of all this question out.
Ho, Pedringano!

Both well, and ill: it makes me glad and sad:
Glad, that I know the hinderer of my love,
Sad, that I fear she hates me whom I love,
Glad, that I know on whom to be revenged,
Sad, that she’ll fly me if I take revenge.
Yet must I take revenge or die myself,
For love resisted grows impatient.
I think Horatio be my destined plague:
First, in his hand he brandished a sword,
And with that sword he fiercely waged war,
And in that war he gave me dangerous wounds,
And by those wounds he forced me to yield,
And by my yielding I became his slave.

What, will you murder me?

Ay, thus, and thus; these are the fruits of love.

This sly enquiry of Hieronimo
For Bel-lmperia breeds suspicion,
And this suspicion bodes a further ill,
As for myself, I know my secret fault;
And so do they, but I have dealt for them.
They that for coin their souls endangered,
To save my life, for coin shall venture theirs:
And better it’s that base companions die,
Than by their life to hazard our good haps.
Nor shall they live, for me to fear their faith:
I’ll trust myself, myself shall be my friend,
For die they shall, slaves are ordained to no other end.

My master hath forbidden me to look in this box, and by my
troth ’tis likely, if he had not warned me, I should not have had
so much idle time; for we men’s-kind in our minority are like
women in their uncertainty: that they are most forbidden,
they will soonest attempt. So I now. By my bare honesty, here’s
nothing but the bare empty box. Were it not sin against secrecy,
I would say it were a piece of gentleman-like knavery. I must
go to Pedringano, and tell him his pardon is in this box; nay, I
would have sworn it, had I not seen the contrary. I cannot choose
but smile to think how the villain will flout the gallows, scorn
the audience, and descant on the hangman, and all presuming
of his pardon from hence. Will’t not be an odd jest, for me to
stand and grace every jest he makes, pointing my finger at this
box, as who would say, ‘Mock on, here’s thy warrant.’ Is’t not a
scurvy jest that a man should jest himself to death? Alas, poor
Pedringano, I am in a sort sorry for thee, but if I should be
hanged with thee, 1 cannot weep.

And you, my lord, whose reconciled son
Marched in a net, and thought himself unseen
And rated me for brainsick lunacy.
With “God amend that mad Hieronimo!”—
How can you brook our play’s catastrophe?
And here behold this bloody handkercher,
Which at Horatio’s death I weeping dipped
Within the river of his bleeding wounds:
It as propitious, see I have reserved,
And never hath it left my bloody heart,
Soliciting remembrance of my vow
With these, O these accursed murderers:
Which now performed, my heart is satisfied.