Not far from hence, amidst ten thousand souls,
Sat Minos, Aeacus, and Rhadamanth,
To whom no sooner ’gan I make approach,
To crave a passport for my wandering ghost,
But Minos, in graven leaves of lottery,
Drew forth the manner of my life and death.
“This knight,” quoth he, “both lived and died in love.
And for his love tried fortune of the wars.
And by war’s fortune lost both love and life.”
Then know, Andrea, that thou art arrived
Where thou shalt see the author of thy death,
Don Balthazar, the prince of Portingale,
Deprived of life by Bel-Imperia.
Here sit we down to see the mystery,
And serve for Chorus in this tragedy.
Thus have I with an envious, forged tale
Deceived the king, betrayed mine enemy,
And hope for guerdon of my villainy.
I took him up, and wound him in mine arms,
And welding him unto my private tent,
There laid him down, and dewed him with my tears,
And sighed and sorrowed as became a friend.
But neither friendly sorrow, sighs nor tears
Could win pale Death from his usurped right.
Yet this I did, and less I could not do:
I saw him honoured with due funeral.
This scarf I plucked from off his lifeless arm,
And wear it in remembrance of my friend.
Ay, go Horatio, leave me here alone,
For solitude best fits my cheerless mood.
Yet what avails to wail Andrea’s death,
From whence Horatio proves my second love?
Had he not loved Andrea as he did,
He could not sit in Bel-Imperia’s thoughts.
But how can love find harbour in my breast,
Till I revenge the death of my beloved?
Yes, second love shall further my revenge.
Now, lordings, fall to; Spain is Portugal,
And Portugal is Spain, we both are friends,
Tribute is paid, and we enjoy our right,
But where is old Hieronimo, our marshal?
He promised us, in honour of our guest.
To grace our banquet with some pompous jest.
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.
Brother of Castile, to the prince’s love
What says your daughter Bel-Imperia?
Although she coy it as becomes her kind,
And yet dissemble that she loves the prince,
I doubt not, I, but she will stoop in time.
And were she froward, which she will not be,
Yet herein shall she follow my advice,
Which is to love him or forgo my love.
What, will you murder me?
Ay, thus, and thus; these are the fruits of love.
See’st thou this handkercher besmeared with blood?
It shall not from me till I take revenge.
See’st thou those wounds that yet are bleeding fresh?
I’ll not entomb them till I have revenged.
Then will I joy amidst my discontent,
Till then my sorrow never shall be spent.
The heavens are just, murder cannot be hid:
Time is the author both of truth and right,
And time will bring this treachery to light.
Say, treacherous Villuppo, tell the king,
Wherein hath Alexandro used thee ill?
Rent with remembrance of so foul a deed,
My guilty soul submits me to thy doom:
For not for Alexandro’s injuries,
But for reward and hope to be preferred,
Thus have I shamelessly hazarded his life.
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.
Thus must we toil in other men’s extremes,
That know not how to remedy our own;
And do them justice, when unjustly we, |
For all our wrongs, can compass no redress.
But shall I never live to see the day
That I may come, by justice of the heavens,
To know the cause that may my cares allay?
This toils my body, this consumeth age,
That only I to all men just must be,
And neither gods nor men be just to me.
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.
And art thou come, Horatio, from the depth,
To ask for justice in this upper earth?
To tell thy father thou art unrevenged,
To wring more tears from Isabella’s eyes,
Whose lights are dimmed with over-long laments?
Go back my son, complain to Aeacus,
For here’s no justice; gentle boy be gone,
For justice is exiled from the earth;
Hieronimo will bear thee company.
Thy mother cries on righteous Rhadamanth
For just revenge against the murderers.
Welcome, Balthazar,
Welcome brave prince, the pledge of Castile’s peace;
And welcome Bel-lmperia. How now, girl?
Why com’st thou sadly to salute us thus?
Content thyself, for I am satisfied;
It is not now as when Andrea lived.
We have forgotten and forgiven that,
And thou art graced with a happier love.
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.
