The Spanish Tragedy

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.

Peace, impudent, for thou shalt find it so:
For blood with blood shall, while I sit as judge,
Be satisfied, and the law discharged.
And though myself cannot receive the like,
Yet will I see that others have their right.
Despatch, the fault’s approved and confessed,
And by our law he is condemned to die.