sorted leasure--
To take aduantage in my garden plot
Vpon my sonne, my deere Horatio.
There mercilesse they butcherd vp my boy,
In black, darke night, to pale, dim, cruell death!
He shrikes; I heard--and yet, me thinks, I heare--
His dismall out-cry eccho in the aire;
With soonest speed I hasted to the noise,
Where, hanging on a tree, I found my sonne
Through-girt with wounds and slaughtred, as you see.
And greeued I, think you, at this spectacle?
Speak, Portuguise, whose losse resembles mine!
If thou canst weep vpon thy Balthazar,
Tis like I wailde for my Horatio.
And you, my l[ord], whose reconciled sonne
Marcht in a net and thought himself vnseene,
And rated me for a brainsicke lunacie,
With "God amend that mad Hieronimo!"--
How can you brook our plaies catastrophe?
And heere beholde this bloudie hand-kercher,
Which at Horatios death weeping dipt
Within the riuer of his bleeding wounds!
It as propitious, see, I haue reserued,
And neuer hath it left my bloody hart,
Soliciting remembrance of my vow
With these, O these accursed murderers!
Which now perform'd, my hart is satisfied.
And to this end the bashaw I became,
That might reuenge me on Lorenzos life,
Who therefore was appointed to the part
And was to represent the knight of Rhodes,
That I might kill him more conueniently.
So, vice-roy, was this Balthazar thy sonne--
That Soliman which Bel-imperia
In person of Perseda murdered,--
So[le]lie appointed to that tragicke part,
That she might slay him that offended her.
Poore Bel-imperia mist her part in this:
For, though the story saith she should haue died,
Yet I, of kindenes and care for her,
Did otherwise determine of her end.
But loue of him whome they did hate too much
Did vrge her resolution to be such.
And princes, now beholde Hieronimo,
Author and actor in this tragedie,
Bearing his latest fortune in his fist;
And will as resolute conclude his parte
As any of the actors gone before.
And, gentles, thus I end my play!
Vrge no more words, I haue no more to say.

He runs to hang himselfe.

KING. O hearken, vice-roy; holde Hieronimo!
Brother, my newphew and they sonne are slaine!

VICE. We are betraide! my Balthazar is slaine!
Breake ope the doores; runne saue Hieronimo!