BELL'-IMPERIA. Murder! murder! Help, Hieronimo, help. LORENZO. Come, stop her mouth, away with her. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ HIERONIMO _in his shirt, &c._ HIERONIMO. What outcries pluck[124] me from my naked bed,[125] And chill[126] 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 'twas no dream. No, no, it was some woman cried for help; And here within this[127] garden did she cry; And in this garden must I rescue her. But stay, what murd'rous spectacle is this? A man hang'd up, and all the murderers gone! And in my bower, to lay the guilt on me! This place was made for pleasure, not for death. [_He cuts him down._ Those garments that he wears I oft have seen: Alas, it is Horatio, my sweet son! O no, but he that[128] whilome was my son! O, was it thou that call'dst me from my bed? O speak, if any spark of life remain: I am thy father; who hath slain my son? What savage monster, not of human kind, Hath here[129] been glutted with thy harmless blood, And left thy bloody corpse dishonour'd here, For me amidst these dark and deathful shades, To drown thee with an ocean of my tears? O heav'ns, why made you night to cover sin? By day this deed of darkness had not been. O earth, why didst thou not in time devour The vild[130] profaner of this sacred bow'r? O poor Horatio! what hadst thou misdone, To lese thy life, ere life was new-begun? O wicked butcher! whatsoe'er thou wert, How couldst thou strangle virtue and desert? Ay me most wretched, that have lost my joy, In lesing my Horatio, my sweet boy! _Enter_ ISABELLA. ISABELLA. My husband's absence makes my heart to throb:-- Hieronimo! HIERONIMO. Here, Isabella, help me to lament; For sighs are stopp'd, and all my tears are spent. ISABELLA. What world of grief! my son Horatio! O, where's the author of this endless woe? HIERONIMO. To know the author were some ease of grief, For in revenge my heart would find relief. ISABELLA. Then is he gone? and is my son gone too? O, gush out, tears, fountains and floods of tears; Blow, sighs, and raise an everlasting storm; For outrage fits our cursed wretchedness. [Aye me,[131] Hieronimo, sweet husband, speak! HIERONIMO.