He supp'd with us to-night, frolic and merry, And said he would go visit Balthazar At the duke's palace: there the prince doth lodge. He had no custom to stay out so late, He may be in his chamber; some go see--Roderigo, ho. _Enter_ PEDRO _and_ JAQUES. ISABELLA. Aye me, he raves! sweet Hieronimo! HIERONIMO. True, all Spain takes note of it. Besides, he is so generally belov'd, His majesty the other day did grace him With waiting on his cup: these be favours, Which do assure me that he cannot be short-liv'd. ISABELLA. Sweet Hieronimo! HIERONIMO. I wonder, how this fellow got his clothes: Sirrah, sirrah, I'll know the truth of all: Jaques, run to the Duke of Castile's presently, And bid my son Horatio to come home, I and his mother have had strange dreams to-night: Do you hear me, sir? JAQUES. Ay, sir. HIERONIMO. Well, sir, be gone. Pedro, come hither; Know'st thou who this is? PEDRO. Too well, sir. HIERONIMO. Too well! Who, who is it? Peace, Isabella. Nay, blush not, man. PEDRO. It is my lord Horatio. HIERONIMO. Ha, ha, St James; but this doth make me laugh, That there are more deluded than myself. PEDRO. Deluded? HIERONIMO. Ay, I would have sworn myself, within this hour, That this had been my son Horatio, His garments are so like: ha! are they not great persuasions? ISABELLA. O, would to God it were not so! HIERONIMO. Were not, Isabella? dost thou dream it is? Can thy soft bosom entertain a thought, That such a black deed of mischief should be done On one so pure and spotless as our son? Away, I am asham'd. ISABELLA. Dear Hieronimo, Cast a more serious eye upon thy grief, Weak apprehension gives but weak belief. HIERONIMO. It was a man, sure, that was hang'd up here, A youth, as I remember: I cut him down. If it should prove my son now after all, Say you, say you! light, lend me a taper; Let me look again. O God! confusion, mischief, torment, death and hell, Drop all your stings at once in my cold bosom, That now is stiff with horror; kill me quickly: Be gracious to me, thou infective night, And drop this deed of murder down on me; Gird in my waste of grief with thy large darkness, And let me not survive to see the light, May put me in the mind I had a son.