_The Ghost of_ ANDREA. REVENGE. KING OF SPAIN. VICEROY OF PORTINGAL. DON CYPRIAN, _Duke of Castile_. HIERONIMO, _Marshal of Spain_.[5] BALTHAZAR,[6] _the Viceroy's Son, in love with Bell'-Imperia_. LORENZO, _Duke of Castile's Son_. HORATIO, _Hieronimo's Son_. ALEXANDRO. VILLUPPO. PEDRINGANO. SERBEBINE. _Old Man._ _Painter._ _Page._ _Hangman._ _Citizens_, _Soldiers_, _Attendants_. ISABELLA, _Hieronimo's Wife_. BELL'-IMPERIA, _Lorenzo's Sister_. THE SPANISH TRAGEDY, &c. ACT I. _Enter the Ghost of_ ANDREA, _and with him_ REVENGE. GHOST. When this eternal substance of my soul Did live imprison'd in my wanton[7] flesh, Each in their function serving other's need, I was a courtier in the Spanish court: My name was Don Andrea; my descent, Though not ignoble, yet inferior far To gracious fortunes of my tender youth: For there in prime and pride[8] of all my years, By duteous service and deserving love, In secret I possess'd a worthy dame, Which hight sweet Bell'-Imperia by name. But, in the harvest of my summer[9] joys, Death's winter nipp'd the blossoms of my bliss, Forcing divorce betwixt my love and me; For in the late conflict with Portingal, My valour drew me into danger's mouth, Till life to death made passage through my wounds. When I was slain, my soul descended straight To pass the flowing stream of Acheron; But churlish Charon, only boatman there, Said that, my rites of burial not perform'd, I might not sit amongst his passengers. Ere Sol had slept three nights in Thetis' lap, And slak'd[10] his smoking chariot in her flood, By Don Horatio, our knight marshal's son, My funerals and obsequies were done: Then was the ferryman of hell content To pass me over to the slimy strand, That leads to fell Avernus' ugly waves; There, pleasing Cerberus with honey'd speech, I pass'd the perils of the foremost porch. Not far from hence, amidst ten thousand souls, Sat Minos, Æacus, and Rhadamant; To whom no sooner 'gan I make approach, To crave a passport for my wand'ring ghost, But Minos, in graven leaves of lottery, Drew forth the manner of my life and death. This knight, quoth he, both liv'd and died in love; And for his love try'd fortune of the wars; And by war's fortune lost both love and life. Why then, said Æacus, convey him hence, To walk with lovers in our fields of love, And spend the course of everlasting time Under green myrtle-trees and cypress shades. No, no, said Rhadamant, it were not well, With loving souls to place a martialist: He died in war, and must to martial fields, Where wounded Hector lives in lasting pain, And Achilles' myrmidons do scour the plain. Then Minos, mildest censor[11] of the three,