ISABELLA. O sweet Horatio! O my dearest son! HIERONIMO. How strangely had I lost my way to grief!] Sweet lovely rose, ill-pluck'd before thy time, Fair worthy son, not conquer'd, but betray'd, I'll kiss thee now, for words with tears are stay'd. ISABELLA. And I'll close up the glasses of his sight, For once these eyes were only[132] my delight. HIERONIMO. Seest thou this handkerchief besmear'd with blood? It shall not from me, till I take revenge: Seest thou those wounds, that yet are bleeding fresh? I'll not entomb them, till I have revenge:[133] Then will I joy amidst my discontent; Till then my sorrow[134] never shall be spent. ISABELLA. The heav'ns are just, murder cannot be hid: Time is the author both of truth and right, And time will bring this treachery to light. HIERONIMO. Meanwhile, good Isabella, cease thy plaints, Or, at the least, dissemble them awhile: 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, [_They take him up._ And bear him in from out this cursed place. I'll say his dirge; singing fits not this case. _O aliquis mihi quas pulchrum ver educat herbas,_ [HIERONIMO _sets his breast unto his sword_. _Misceat, & nostro detur medicina dolori:_ _Aut si qui faciunt annorum oblivia succos,_ _Præbeat, ipse metam magnum quæcunque per orbem,_ _Gramina sol pulchras ejecit lucis in oras,_ _Ipse bibam quicquid meditatur saga veneni,_ _Quicquid & irarum vi cæca nenia nectit._ _Omnia perpetiar, lethum quoque, dum semel omnis_ _Noster in extincto moriatur pectore sensus:_ _Ergo tuos oculos nunquam, mea vita, videbo,_ _Et tua perpetuus sepelivit lumina somnus._ _Emoriar tecum sic, sic juvat ire sub umbras._ _Attamen absistam properato cedere letho,_ _Ne mortem vindicta tuam tum nulla sequatur._ [_Here he throws it from him, and bears the body away._ _Enter_ ANDREA'S GHOST, _with_ REVENGE. ANDREA. Brought'st thou me hither to increase my pain? I look'd, that Balthazar should have been slain; But 'tis my friend Horatio that is slain: And they abuse fair Bell'-Imperia, On whom I doated more than all the world, Because she lov'd me more than all the world. REVENGE. Thou talk'st of harvest,[135] when the corn is green; The end is crown[136] of every work well done: The sickle comes not, till the corn be ripe. Be still; and ere I lead thee from this place, I'll show thee Balthazar in heavy case.