[168] _Imprison'd_, 1618, '23, 33. [169] _Marshals_, 1618, 23, '33. [170] _I_, omitted, 1618, '23, '33. [171] _Bare_, omitted, ditto. [172] _Men-kind_, ditto. [173] _Credit_, ditto. [174] _Should_, ditto. [175] _Could not_, 1618, '23, '33. [176] _The_, 1618, '23, '33. [177] _No_, ditto. [178] _My_, omitted, 1618, '23, '33. [179] _No reason_, ditto. [180] _For_, 1618, '23, '33. [181] [Old copies, _murder? o._] [182] _The_, 1618, '23, '33. [183] _Spring-tide_, 1618, '23, '33. [184] _But_, ditto. [185] _Shall thus be this revenged_, 1618. _Shall thus be thus_ _revenged_, 1623, '33. [186] _Should_, 1618, '23, '33. [187] _For thee_, ditto. ACT IV.[188] _Enter_ ISABELLA _and her_ MAID. ISABELLA. So that you say this herb will purge the eye,[189] And this the head. Ah, but none of them will purge the heart! No, there's no medicine left for my disease, Nor any physic to recure the dead. [_She runs lunatic._ Horatio! O, where's Horatio? MAID. Good madam, affright not thus yourself With outrage for your son Horatio; He sleeps in quiet in the Elysian fields. ISABELLA. Why, did I not give you gowns and goodly things? Bought you a whistle and a whipstalk[190] too, To be revenged on their villanies? MAID. Madam, these humours do torment my soul. ISABELLA. My soul, poor soul; thou talk'st of things-- Thou know'st not what: my soul hath silver wings, That mount me up unto the highest heavens: To heaven, ay, there sits my Horatio, Back'd with a troop of fiery cherubims, Dancing about his newly-healed wounds, Singing sweet hymns, and chanting heavenly notes: Rare harmony to greet his innocence,[191] That died,[192] ay, died a mirror in our days. But say, where shall I find the men, the murderers, That slew Horatio? Whither shall I run, To find them out, that murdered my son? [_Exeunt._ BELL'-IMPERIA _at a window_. BELL'-IMPERIA. What means this outrage, that is offer'd me? Why am I thus sequester'd from the court? No notice! shall I not know the cause Of these my secret and suspicious ills! Accursed brother, unkind murderer, Why bend'st thou thus thy mind to martyr me? Hieronimo, why writ[193] I of thy wrongs? Or why art thou so slack in thy revenge? Andrea, O Andrea! that thou saw'st Me for thy friend Horatio handled thus; And him for me thus causeless murdered! Well, force perforce, I must constrain myself To patience, and apply me to the time, Till heav'n, as I have hop'd, shall set me free.