LEE

A murder closely done and in my ground? Search carefully, if any where it were, This obscure thicket is the likeliest place. This bloody towel, and these naked knives, Beside we found them sitting by the place, Where the dead body lay within a bush. And for amends, Touching the wrong unwittingly I have done, There are a few crowns more for them to drink. gives them a purse. Look if thou knowest him, turn his body up, A lack it is my son, my son and heir, Whom two years since, I sent to Ireland, To practice there the discipline of war, And coming home (for so he wrote to me) Some savage heart, some bloody devilish hand, Either in hate, or thirsting for his coin, Hath here slucde out his blood, unhappy hour, Accursed place, but most inconstant fate, That hadst reserude him from the bullets fire, And suffered him to escape the wood-karns fury, Didst here ordain the treasure of his life, (Even here within the arms of tender peace, And where security gate greatest hope) To be consumed by treasons wasteful hand? And what is most afflicting to my soul, That this his death and murder should be wrought, With hout the nowledge by whose means it done, Just judgement of that power, whose gracious eye, Loathing the sighed of such a heinous fact, Dazzled their senses with benumming-sleepe, Till their unhallowed treachery were known: Awake you monsters, murderers awake, Tremble for horror, blush you cannot choose, Beholding this inhumane deed of yours. O devilish! can you boast unto your selves Of quiet sleep, having within your hearts The gilded of murder waking, that with cries Deafs the loud thunder, and solicits heaven, With more e than Mandrakes shrieks for your offence? Can you deny the fact? see you not here, The body of my son by you misdone? Look on his wounds, look on his purple hew: Do we not find you where the deed was done? Were not your knives fast closed in your hands? Is not this cloth and argument beside, Thus stained and spotted with his innocent blood? These speaking characters, were nothing else To plead against you, would convict you both. Bring them away, bereavers of my joy, At Hartford where the Sises now are kept, Their lives shall answer for my sons lost life. As I am wronged, so may the law proceed. exeunt. Is this the wolf whose thirsty throat did drink My deer sons blood? art thou the snake He cherished, yet with envious piercing sting, Assaildst him mortally? foul stigmatike, Thou venom of the country where thou livedst, And pestilence of this: were it not that law Stands ready to revenge thy cruelty, Traitor to God, thy master, and to me, These hands should be thy executioner.