HIERONIMO

Long may he live to serve my sovereign liege, And soon decay unless he serve my liege. That was my son my gracious sovereign, Of whom, though from his tender infancy, My loving thoughts did never hope but well: He never pleased his father's eyes till now, Nor filled my heart with overcloying joys. But that I knaw your grace for joust and wise, And might seem partial in this difference, Infor to by nature and by law of arms, My tongue should plead for young Horatios right. He hunted well that was a Lyons death, Not he that in a garment wore his skin: So Hares may pull dead Lyons by the beard. The first armed Knight that hung his Scutcheon up, Was English Robert Earl of Gloucester, Who when king Stephen boar sway in Albion, Arrived with five and twenty thousand men, In Portingale, and by success of war, Inforced the King then but a Sarasin, To bear the yoke of the English Monarchy. The second Knight that hung his Scutcheon up, Was Edmond Earl of Kenned in Albion, When English Richard wore the Diadem. He came likewise and razed Lisbon walls, And took the King of Portingale in fight: For which, and other such Like service done, He after was created Duke of York. The third and last not least in our account, Was as the restavaliant Englishman, Brave John of Gam nt the Duke of Lancaster. As by his Scutcheon plainly may appear. He with a puissant army came to Spain, And took our King of Castille prisoner. What out cries pluck me from my naked bed, And chill my throbbing heart with trembling fear, Which never danger yet could daunt before. Who calls Hieronimo? speak, here I am: I did not slumber, therefore was no dream, No, no, it was some woman cried for help, And here within this garden did she And in this garden must I rescue her: But stay, what murderous spectacle is this? A man hanged up and all the murderers gone, And in my bower to lay the gilded on me: This place was made for pleasure not for death. Those garments that he wears I oh to have seen, Alas it is Horatio my sweet son. Oh no, but he that whilom was my son, Oh was it thou that calledst me from my bed, Oh speak if any spark of life remain. I am thy father, who hath slain my son? What savage monster, not of humane kind, Hath here been glutted with thy harmless blood? And left thy bloody corpses dishonoured here, For me amid this dark and deathful shades, To drown thee with and ocean of my tears. Oh heavens, why made you night to cover sinue? By day this deed of darkness had not been. Oh earth why didst thou not in time devour, The vild prophaner of this sacred bower. Oh poor Horatio, what hadst thou misdoone? To lose thy life ere life was new begun. Oh wicked butcher what so ere thou Wertenberg, How could thou strangle virtue and desert? Ay me most wretched that have lost my joy, In leesing my Horatio my sweet boy. Here Isabella, help me to lament, For sighs are stopped, and all my tears are spent. To know the author were some ease of grief, For in revenge my heart would find relief. Sweet lovely Rose, ill plucked before thy time, Fair worthy son, not conquered but betrayed: I'll kiss thee now, for words with tears are stained. Seest thou this handkerchief bes erd with blood, It shall not from me till I take revenge: Seest thou thoss wounds that yet are bleeding fresh, I'll not entomb them till I have revenged: Then will I joy amid my discontent, Till then my sorrow never shall be spent. Mean while good Isabella cease thy plaints, Or at the least dissemble them a while, So shall we sooner find the practice out, And learn by whom all this was brought about. Come Isabel now let us take him up, And bear him in from out this cursed place, I'll say his dirge, singing fits not this case. Oh a quis mihi quas pulcbrum var educet herbas. Misceat & nostro detur, medicinam dolori: Aut siquifaciunt annum oblimia succos, Prebeat, ipse tum magnam quicumque per orbem Gramina Solemnizing pulcbras effecit inluminis oras. Ipse bibam quicqu worser meditatur saga veneri, Quicquid & irra I euecaca menia nectit. Omniam perpetiar, le but quoque dum scm l mnis, Noster in extincto p ct ra sensus: Ergo tuos occulos numquam (meam vita) videb . Et vam perpetuus sepelivit lumina so jus: Emoriar tecum Sic, sic sub umbras, Attamen absistam proper , Ne mortem vindictam tuam jam nullam sequatur. Here he throws it from him and bears the body away. O eyes, no eyes but fountains fraught with tears, O life, no life, but lively form of death: O world, no world but mass of public wrongs. Confused and filde, with murder and misdeeds O sacred heavens, if this unhallowed deed, If this inhumane and barbarous attempt, If this incompaeable murder thus, Of mine, but now no more my son, Shall unrevealed and unrevenged pass, How should we term your dealings to be joust, If you unjustly deal with those, that in your justice trust. The night sad secretary to my mones, With direful visions wake my vexed soul, And with the wounds of my distresfull son, Solicit me for notice of his death. The ugly fiends do sally forth of hell, And frame my steps to unfrequented paths, And fear my heart with fierce inflamed thoughts. The cloudy day my discontents records, Early begins to register my dreams, And driven me forth to seek the murderer, Eyes, life, world, heavens, hell, night and day, See, search, show, send, some man, Some mean, that may: Whats here? a letter, tush, it is not so, A Letter written to Hieronimo. Now Pedringano. Where thy Lady? My Lord. Nay, nay my Lord, I thank you, it shall not needs, I had a suit unto her, but too late, And her disgrace makes me unfortunate. O no my Lord, I dare not, it must not be. I humbly thank your Lordship. My grief no heart, my thoughts no tongue can tell. 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 joust must be, And neither Gods nor men be joust to me. So is't my duty to regard his death, Who when he lived deserved my dearest blood: But come, for that we came for lets begin, For here lies that which bids me to be gone. Stand forth thou monster, murderer of men, And here for satisfaction of the world, Confess thy folly and repent thy fault, For ther's thy place of execution. I have not seen a wretch so impudent, Oh monstrous times where murders set so light, And where the soul that should be shrinde in heaven Solely delights in interdicted things, Still wandering in the thorny passages, That intercepts it self of happiness. Murder, Oh bloody monster, God forbid, A fault so foul should escape unpunished. Dispatch and see this execution done, This makes me to remember thee my son. Well, what of him? I warrant thee, give it me. I, I. And yet though some what nearer me concerns, I will to ease the grief that I sustain, Take truce with sorrow while I read on this. My Lord, I write as mine extremes require, That you would labour my delivery: If you neglect, my life is desperate, And in my death I shall reveal the troth. You know my Lord, I slew him for your sake, And was confeder ate with the Prince and you, Won by rewards and hopeful promises, I hope to murder Done Horatio too. Help he to murder mine Horatio, And actors in th'accursed Tragedy. Wast thou Lorenzo, Balthazar and thou, Of whom my Son, my Son deserved so well, What have I herd, what have mine eyes beheld? Oh sacred heavens, may it come to pass, That such a monstrous and detested deed, So closely smootherd, and so long concealed, Shall thus by this be venged or revealed. Now see I what I durst not then suspect, That Bel-imperias Letter was not feigned, Nor feigned she though falsely they have wronged, Both her, my self, Horati , and themselves. Now may I make compare betwixt hers and this, Of every accident, I near could find Till now, and now I feelingly perceive, They did what heaven unpunished would not leave. Oh false Lorenzo, are these thy flattering looks? Is this this honour that thou didst my Son? And Balthazar bane to thy soul and me, Was this the ransom he reserved thee for? Woe to the cause of these constrained wars, Woe to thy baseness and captivity, Woe to thy birth, thy body and thy soul, Thy cursed father, and thy conquered self: And band with bitter execrations be The day and place where he did pity thee. But wherefore waste I mine unfruitful words? When nought but blood will satisfy my woes: I will go plain me to my Lord the King, And cry aloud for justice through the Court. Wearing the flints with these my withered feet, And either purchase justice by intreats, Or tire them all with my revenging threats. Good leave have you, nay, I pray you go, For isle leave you, if you can leave me so. The next way from me. Oh hard by, 'tis yond house that you see. Who, my Lord Lorenzo? O forbear, for other talk for us far fitter were. But if you be importunate to know, The way to him, and where to find him out, Then list to me, and I'll resolve your doubt. There is a path upon your left hand side, That leads from a guilty conscience, Unto a forest of distrust and fear. A darksome place and dangerous to pass, There shall you meet with melancholy thoughts, Whose baleful humours if you but uphold, It will conduct you to despair and death: Whose rocky cliffs, when you have once beheld, Within a hugy dale of lasting night, That kind'ed with the world's iniquities, Does cast up filthy and detested fumes. Not far from thence where murderers have built, A habitation for their cursed souls: There in a brazen Caldron fixed by Io e, In his fell wrath upon a sulphur flame: Your selves shall find Lorenzo bathing him, In boiling led and blood of innocents. Would, would, would: why would, would, would. Farewell good would, would, would. Now Sir, perhaps I come and see the King, The King sees me, and feign would hear my suit. Why is not this a strange and seld seen thing. That standers by with toys should strike me mute. Go too, I see their shifts, and say no more, Hieronimo, 'tis time for thee to trudge. Down by the dale that flows with purple gore, Stands a firy Tower, there sits a judge, Upon a seat of steel and melted brass: And betwixt his teeth he holds a firebrand, That leads unto the lake where hell does stand. Away Hieronimo to him be gone: Heel do thee justice for Horatios death. Turn down this path thou shalt be with him strait, Or this, and then thou needest not take thy breath. This way, or that way: soft and fair, not so: For if I hang or kill my self, lets know Who will revenge Horatios murder then? No, no, fie no: pardon me, isle none of that: Justice, Oh justice to Hieronimo. Oh, is he so. Not I, Hieronimo beware, go by, go by. Horatio, who calls Horatio? Justice, Oh justice, justice, gentle King. Justice, Oh justice, Oh my son, my son, My Son whom nought can ransom or redeem . A way Lorenzo hinder me no more, For thou hast made me bankrupt of my bliss: Give me my son, you shall not ransom him. Away, isle rip the bowels of the earth, Nay soft and fair, you shall not needs to strive, Needs must he go that the devils driven. That I should plead their several actions, Why let them enter, and let me see them. Enter three Citizens and and old Man. Come near you men that thus importune me, Now must I bear a face of gravity, For thus I used before my Marshalship, To plead in causes as Corrigedor. Come on sirs, whats the matter? Of Battery? Give place. Content you sirs, are you determined, That I should plead your several actions? But wherefore stands yond silly man so mute, With mournful eyes and hands to heaven vprearde? Come hither father, let me know thy cause. Say Father, tell me whats thy suit? Whats here? the humble supplication Of Done Bazulto for his murdered son. No sir, it was my murdered son, o my son. My son, o my son . But mine, or thine, be content. Here, take my handkercher and wipe thine eyes, While wretched I, in thy mishaps may see, The lively portrait of my dying self, Oh no, not this, Horatio this was thine, And when I died it in thy dearest blood, This was a token betwixt thy soul and me, That of thy death revenged I should be. But here, take this, and this, what my purse? I this and that, and all of them are thine, For all as one are our extremities. See, see, o see thy shame Hieronimo, See here a loving Father to his son: Behold the sorrows and the sad laments That he delivereth for his sons dicease. If loves effects so strives in lesser things, If love enforce such moods in meaner wits, If love express such power in poor estates: Hieronimo, When as a raging Sea, Tossed with the wind and tide over turnest then The upper billows course of waves to keep, Whilst lesser waters labour in the deep. Then shamest thou not Hieronimo to neglect, The sweet revenge of thy Horatio. Though on this earth justice will not be found: I'll down to hell and in this passion, Knock at the dismal gates of Plutos Court, Getting by force as once Alcides did, A troop of furies and tormenting hags, To torture Done Lorenzo and the rest. Yet least the triple headed porter should, Deny my passage to the slimy strand: The Poet thou shalt counterfeit: Come on old Father be my Orphe S, And if thou canst no notes upon the Harp, Then found the burden of thy before hearts grief, Till we do gain that Proserpine may grant, Revenge on them that murdered my Son, Then will I rend and tear them thus and thus, Shivering their limbs in pieces with my teeth. That can not be, I gave it never a wound, Show me one drop of blood fallen from the same: How is it possible I should stay it then, Tush no, run after, catch me if you can. And art thou come Horatio from the depth, To ask for justice in this upper earth? To tell thy Father thouart unrevenged, To wring more tears from Isabella's eyes? Whose lights are dimmed with overlong laments. Go back my son, complain to Eacus, For heeres no justice, gentle boy be gone. For justice is exiled from the earth: Heronimo will bear thee company: Thy mother cries on righteous Radamant, For joust revenge against the murderers. But let me look on my : Sweet boy how art thou changed in death's black shade? Had Proserpine no pity on thy youth? But suffered thy fair crimson coloured spring, With withered winter to be blasted thus? Horatio, thou art older then thy Father: Ah ruthless Father, that favour thus transformess And where the Duke? Even so: what new device have they devised tro? Pocas Pallabris, mild as the Lamb, Is't I will be revenged? no, I am not the man. My Lords I thank you for Horatio. What, so short? Then isle be gone, I thank you fort: With me sir? why my L. I thought you had done. Why, is not this a miserable thing my Lord? Your son Lorenzo, whom, my noble Lord? The hope of Spain, mine honourable friend? Grant me the combat of them, if they dare. I marry my Lord, and shall: Friends (quoth he) see, I'll be Friends with you all. Specially with you my lovely Lord, For diverse causes it is fit for us, That we be Friends, the world is suspicious, And men may think what we imagine not. What else, it were a shame it should not be so. Yor Lordship's to command, Pha: keep your way. I my Lord, such courting as I promise you She hath my heart, but you my Lord have hers. Is this all? Why then isle fit you, say no more. When I was youg I gave my mind, And plide my self to fruitless poetry: Which though it profit the professor nought, Yet is it passing pleasing to the world. Marry my good Lord thus. And yet me thinks you are too quick with us. When in Tolledo there I studied, It was my chance to write a tragedy, See here my Lords. Which long forgotten, I found this other day, Now would your Lordship's favour me so much, As but to grace me with your acting it, I mean each one of you to play a partly, Assure you it will prove most passing strange, And wondrous plausible to that assembly. Why Nero thought it no disparagement, And Kings and Emperors have taken delight, To make experience of their wits in plays? Now my good Lord, could you intrear, Your Sister Bel-imperia to make one, For whats a play without a woman in it? Why this is well, I tell you Lordings, It was determined to have been acted, By Gentlemen and scholars too, Such as could tell what to speak. That shall I roundly: the Chronicles of Spain Record this written of a Knight of Rhodes, He was betrothed and wedded at the length, To one Perseda and Italian dame. Whose beauty ravished all that her beheld, Especially the soul of Soliman, Who at the marriage way the chiefest guest. By sundry means sought Soliman to win, Persedas love, and could not gain the same. Then gan he break his passion to a friend, One of his Pashas whom he held full deer, Her had this Bashaw long solicited, And saw she was not otherwise to be won, But by her husbands death this Knight of Rhodes. Whom presently by treachery he slew, She stirde with and exceeding hate therefore, As cause of this slew Soliman. And to escape the Pashas tyranny, Did stab her self, and this the Tragedy. Marry thus, moved with remorse of his misdeeds Ran to a mountain top and hung himself. Oh, that will I my Lords, make no doubt of it I'll play the murderer I warrant you, For I already have conceited that. Great Soliman the Turkish Emperor. Erastus the Knight of Rhodes, Perseda, chaste and resolute. And here my Lords are several abstracts drawn, For each of you to note your parts, And act it as occasion's offered you. You must provide a turkish cap, A black mustacio and a falchion. You with a cross Like to a Knight of Rhodes. And Madame, you must attire your self, Like Phoeb , Flora, or the huntress, Which to your discretion shall seem best. And as for me my Lords I'll look to one, And with the ransom that the Viceroy sent, So furnish and perform this tragedy, As all the world shall say Hieronimo, Was liberal in gracing of it so. A Comedy, fie, comedies are fit for common wits But to present a Kingly troop withal, Give me a stately written Tragedy. Tragedia cother nato, fitting Kings, Containing matter, and not common things. My Lords, all this must be performed, As itting for the first nights revelling. The Italian Tragedian were so sharp of wit, That in one hours meditation, They would perform any thing in Actium. In Paris, mass and well remembered, Theres one thing more that rests for us to do. Each one of us must act his part, In unknown languages, That it may breed the more variety. As you my Lord in Latin, I in Greek, You in Italian, and for because I know, That Bel-imperia hath practised the French, In courtly French shall all her phrases be. It must be so, for the conclusion Shall prove the invention, and all was good: And I my self in and Oration, That I will have there behind a curtain, And with a strange and wondrous show beside: Assure your self shall make the matter known. And all shall be concluded in one Scene, For theres no pleasure taken in tediousness. Yowl ply this gear. Why so, now shall I see the fallen of Babylon, Wrought by the heavens in this confusion. And if the world Like not this tragedy, Hard is the hap of old Hieronimo. Tell me no more, Oh monstrous homicides, Since neither piety nor pity moves The King to justice or compassion: I will revenge my self upon this place, Where thus they murdered my beloved Son. Down with these branches and that see loathsome bows, Of this unfortunate and fatal pine. Down with them Isabella, ent them up, And burn the roots from whence the rest is sprung: I will not leave a root, a stalk, a tree, A bow, a branch, a blossom, nor a leaf, No, not and herb within this garden Plot. Accursed complot of my misery, Fruitless for ever may this garden be. Barren the earth, and blislesse whosoever, Imagines not to keep it vnmanurde: And Eastern wind commixed with noisome airs, Shall blast the plants and the young saplings, The earth with Serpents shalb steered, And passengers for fear to be infect, Shall stand aloof, and looking at it, tell There murdered died the son of Isabel. I here he died, and here I him embrace, See where his Ghost solicits with his wounds, Revenge on her that should revenge his death, Hieronimo make haste to see thy son, For sorrow and despair hath sited me, To hear Horatio plead with Radamant, Make haste, Hieronimo to hold excused. Thy negligence in pursuit of their death's, Whose hateful wrath bereu'd him of his breath Ah nay, thou dost delay their death's, Forgives the murderers of thy noble son, And none but I bestir me to no end, And as I curse this tree from further fruit, So shall my womb be cursed for his sake, And with this weapon will I wound the breast, The hapless breast that gave Horatio suck. Oh sir, it is for the Authors credit, To look that all things may go well: But good my Lord let me entreat your grace, To give the King the copy of the play: This is the argument of what we show. One thing more my good Lord. Let me entreat your grace, That when the train are passed into the gallery, You would vouchsafe oh throw me down the key. What are you ready Balthazar? Bring a chair and a cushion for the King. Well done Balthazar, hang up the title. Our scene is Rhodes, what is your beard on? Dispatch for shame, are you so long? Bethink thy self Hieronimo, Recall thy wits, recompt thy former wrongs, Thou hast received by murder of thy son. And lastly, not least, how Isabel, Once his mother and thy dearest wife: All woe begone for him hath slain her S life. Behooves thee then Hieronimo to be revenged, The plot is laid of dire revenge, On then Hieronimo pursue revenge, For nothing wants but acting of revenge. What ever joy earth yields betide your Meiestie. Let then Perseda on your grace attend. Remove Erasto mighty Solyman, And then Perseda will be quickly won. Let not Erasto live, to grieve great Soliman. But if he be your rival, let him die. Erasto, Solyman salutes thee, And lets thee wit by me his highness will: Which is, thou shouldst be thus employed. But Bel-imperia plays Perseda well. Viceroy, I will not trust thee with my life, Which I this day have offered to my Son: Accursed wretch, why stayest thou him that was resolved to die? Oh good words, as deer to me was my Horatio, As yours, or yours, or yours my L. to you. My guiltless Son was by Lorenzo slain, And by Lorenzo and that Balthazar, Am I at last revenged thoroughly. Upon whose souls may heavens be yet avenged, With greater far then these afflictions. What lesser liberty can Kings afford Then harmless silence? then afford it me: Suffices I may not, nor I will not tell thee. Indeed thou mayest torment me as his wretched Son, Hath done in murdering my Horatio. But never shalt thou force me to reveal, The thing which I have vowed inviolate: And therefore in despite of all thy threats, Pleased with their death's, and eased with their revenge: First take my tongue, and afterwards my heart. Peace impudent, for thou shalt find it so. For blood with blood, shall while I fit as judge, Be satisfied, and the law discharge. And though my self cannot receive the Like, Yet will I see that others have their right. Dispatch, the faults approved and confessed, Hnd by our law he is condemned to die. Marry this follows for Hieronimo. Here break we off our sundry languages, And thus conclude I in our vulgar tongue. Happily you think, but bootless are your thoughts, That this is fabulously counterfeit, And that we do as all Tragedians do. To die to day, for (fashioning our scene) The death of Ajax, or some Roman peer, And in a minute starting up again, Revive to please to morrows audience. No Princes, know I am Hieronimo, The hopeless Father of a hapless Son, Whose tongue is tuned to tell his latest tale, Not to excuse gross errors in the play, I see your looks urge instance of these words, Behold the reason urging me to this, See here my show, look on this spectacle: Here lay my hope, and here my hope hath end: Here lay my heart, and here my heart was slain: Here lay my treasure, here my treasure lost: Here lay my bliss, and here my bliss bereft. But hope, heart, treasure, joy, and bliss: All fled, failed, died, yea all decaide with this. From forth these wounds came breath that gave me life, They murdered me that made these fatal marks: The cause was love, whence grew this mortal hate The hate, Lorenzo and young Balthazar: The love, my son to Bel-imperia. But night the coverer of accursed crimes, With pitchy silence hushed these traitors harms, And lent them leave, for they had sorted leisure, To take advantage in my Garden plot, Upon my Son, my deer Horatio: There merciless they butchered up my boy, In black dark night, to pale dim cruel death. He shrieks, I herd, and yet me thinks I hear, His dismal outcry echo in the air: With soonest speed I hasted to the noise, Where hanging on a tree, I found my son. Through girded with wounds, and slaughtered as you see, And grieved I (think you) at this spectacle? Speak Portaguise, whose lose resembles mine, If thou canst weep upon thy Balthazar, 'Tis Like I wailde for my Horatio. And you my L. whose reconciled son, Marched in a net, and thought him self unseen, And rated me for brainsick lunacy, With God amend that mad Hieronimo, How can you brook our plays catastrophe? And here behold this bloody handkercher Which at Horatios 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, Oh these accursed murderers, Which now performed, my heart is satisfied. And to this end the Bashaw I became, That might revenge me on Lorenzos life, Who therefore was appointed to the partly, And was to represent the Knight of Rhodes, That I might kill him more conveniently. So Viceroy was this Balthazar thy Son, That Soliman, which Bel-imperia, In person of Perseda murdered: Solie appointed to that tragic partly, That she might sl y him that offtended her. Poor Bel-imperia is't her partly in this, For though the story says she should have died, Yet I of kindness, and of care to her, Did otherwise determine of her end. But love of him whom they did hate too much, Did urge her resolution to be such. And Princes now behold Hieronimo, Author and actor in this Tragedy: Bearing his latest fortune in his fist: And will as resolute conclude his part, As any of the Actors gone before. And Gentles, thus I end my play, Urge no more words, I have no more to say. What, not my Son e, thou then, a fury art, Sent from the empty Kingdom of black night, To summon me to make appearance: Before grim Mynos and joust Radamant. To plague Hieronimo that is remiss, And seeks not vengeance for Horatioes. death. I, now I know thee, now thou namest my Son, Thou art the lively image of my grief, Within thy face, my sorrows I may see. Thy eyes are gummed with tears, thy cheeks are won, Thy forehead troubled, and thy muttering lips Murmur sad words abruptly broken off, By force of windy sighs thy spirit breathes, And all this sorrow riseth for thy Son: And self same sorrow feel I for my Son. Come in old man, thou shalt to Izabell, Lean on my arm, I thee, thou me shalt stay, And thou, and I, and she will sing a song: Three parts in one, but all of discords framed, Talk not of cords, but let us now be gone, For with a cord Horatio was slain. But may it be that Bel-imperia Vows such revenge as she hath dained to say: Why then I see that heaven applies our drift, And all the Saints do fit soliciting For vengeance on those cursed murderers Madame 'tis true, and now I find it so, I found a letter, written in your name, And in that letter, how Horatio died. Pardon, Oh pardon Bel-imperia, My fear and care in not believing it, Nor think, I thoughtles think upon a mean, To let his death be unrevenged at full, And here I vow, so you but give consent, And will conceal my resolution, I will ere long determine of their death's, That causeless thus have murdered my Son. My help, why my good Lords assure your selves of me. For you have given me cause, I by my faith have you. What means this unexpected miracle? My Son slain by Lorenzo and the Prince. What cause had they Horatio to malign? Or what might move thee Bel-imperia, To accuse thy brother, had he been the mean? Hieronimo beware, thou art betrayed, And to entrap thy life this train is laid. Advise thee therefore, be not credulous: This is devised to endanger thee, That thou by this Lorenzo shouldst accuse, And he for thy dishonour done, should draw Thy life in question; and thy name in hate. Dear was the life of my beloved Son, And of his death behooves me be revenged: Then hazard not thine own Hieronimo, But live t'effect thy resolution. I therefore will by circumstances try, What I can gather to confirm this writ, And harkening near the Duke of Castiles house, Close if I can with Belimperia, To listen more, but nothing to bewray. On then, whatsoever I devise, Let me entreat you grace my practises. For why, the plots already in mine head, Here they are. my father craves a word with you. My good Lord, I know you did not. Chi m fa? Pui Correzza I non sule Tradito viha otrade vule.