The Spanish Tragedie Part 16

BEL. Euen so, my lord? And you are witnesse That this is true which he entreateth of?

You, gentle brother, forged this for my sake?

And you, my lord, were made his instrument?

A worke of worth! worthy the noting too!

But whats the cause that you concealde me since?

LOR. Your melancholly, sister, since the newes Of your first fauorite Don Andreas death My fathers olde wrath hath exasperate.

BAL. And better wast for you, being in disgrace, To absent your-selfe and giue his fury place.

BEL. But why I had no notice of his ire?

LOR. That were to adde more fewell to your fire, Who burnt like Aetne for Andreas losse.

BEL. Hath not my father then enquird for me?

LOR. Sister, he hath; and this excusde I thee.

He whispereth in her eare.

But, Bel-imperia, see the gentle prince; Looke on thy loue; beholde yong Balthazar, Whose pa.s.sions by the presence are increast, And in whose melachollie thou maiest see Thy hate, his loue, thy flight, his following thee.

BEL. Brother, you are become an oratour-- I know not, I, by what experience-- Too politick for me, past all compare, Since I last saw you. But content your-selfe; The prince is meditating higher things.

BAL. Tis of thy beauty, then, that conquers kings, Of those thy tresses, Ariadnes twines, Wherewith my libertie thou hast surprisde, Of that thine iuorie front, my sorrowes map, Wherein I see no hauen to rest my hope.

BEL. To loue and feare, and both at once, my lord, In my conceipt, are things of more import Then womens wit are to be busied with.

BAL. Tis that I loue thee.

BEL. Whome?

BAL. Bel-imperia.

BEL. But that I feare?

BAL. Whome?

BEL. Bel-imperia.

LOR. Feare your-selfe?

BEL. I, brother.

LOR. How?

BEL. As those That, [when] they loue, are loath and feare to loose.

BAL. Then, faire, let Balthazar your keeper be.

BEL. No, Balthazar doth feare as well as we; Et tremulo metui pauidum iunxere timorem, Et vanum stolidae proditionis opus.

Exit.

LOR. Nay, and you argue things so cunningly, Weele goe continue this discourse at court.

BAL. Led by the loadstar of heauenly lookes, Wends poore oppressed Balthazar, As ore the mountains walkes the wanderer Incertain to effect his pilgrimage.

Exeunt.

[ACT III. SCENE 11.]

[A street.]

Enter two PORTINGALES, and HIERONIMO meets them.

I PORT. By your leaue, sir.

[The following is inserted in the 1618, 1623, and 1633 editions.]

HIER. Tis neither as you thinke, nor as you thinke, Nor as you thinke, you'r wide all: These slippers are not mine, they were my sonne Horatios.

My sonne? And what's a sonne? A thing begot Within a paire of minutes, there-about; A lump bred up in darknesse, and doth serue To ballance those light creatures we call women, And at nine monethes end creepes foorth to light.

What is there yet in a sonne to make a father Dote, rave or runne mad? Being born, it pouts, Cries, and breeds teeth. What is there yet in a sonne?

He must be fed, be taught to goe and speake.

I, and yet? Why might not a man love A calfe as well, or melt in pa.s.sion over A frisking kid, as for a sonne? Me thinkes A young bacon or a fine smooth little horse-colt Should moove a man as much as doth a son; For one of these in very little time Will grow to some good use, whereas a sonne, The more he growes in stature and in yeeres, The more unsquar'd, unlevelled he appeares, Reckons his parents among the ranke of fooles, Strikes cares upon their heads with his mad ryots, Makes them looke old before they meet with age.-- This is a son! And what a losse were this, Considered truely! Oh, but my Horatio Grew out of reach of those insatiate humours: He lovd his loving parents, he was my comfort And his mothers joy, the very arme that did Hold up our house, our hopes were stored up in him.

None but a d.a.m.ned murderer could hate him!

He had not seene the backe Of nineteene yeere, when his strong arme unhorst The proud prince Balthazar; and his great minde, Too full of honour tooke him unto mercy, That valient but ign.o.ble Portingale.

Well! Heaven is Heaven still! And there's Nemesis, and Furies, And things called whippes, and they sometimes doe meet With murderers! They doe not alwayes scape,-- That is some comfort! I, I, I; and then Time steales on, and steales and steales, till violence Leapes foorth like thunder wrapt in a ball of fire, And so doth bring confusion to them all.

[End of insertion.]

Good leaue haue you; nay, I pray you goe, For Ile leaue you, if you can leaue me so.

II PORT. Pray you, which is the next way to my l[ord]

the dukes?

HIERO. The next way from me.

I PORT. To the house, we meane.

HIERO. O hard by; tis yon house that you see.

II PORT. You could not tell vs if his sonne were there?

HIERO. Who? my lord Lorenzo?

I PORT. I, sir.