O Jaques, know thou that our master's mind Is much distraught,[222] since his Horatio died; And now his aged years should sleep in rest, His heart in quiet, like a desperate man, Grows lunatic and childish for his son: Sometimes, as he doth at his table sit, He speaks as if Horatio stood by him; Then starting in a rage, falls on the earth, Cries out _Horatio, where is my Horatio?_ So that with extreme grief and cutting sorrow There is not left in him one inch of man: See, here he comes. _Enter_ HIERONIMO. HIERONIMO. I pry through every crevice of each wall, Look at each tree, and search through every brake, Beat on the bushes, stamp our grand-dame earth, Dive in the water, and stare up to heaven: Yet cannot I behold my son Horatio. How now, who's there? Sprights, sprights! PEDRO. We are your servants that attend you, sir. HIERONIMO. What make you with your torches in the dark? PEDRO. You bid us light them, and attend you here. HIERONIMO. No, no, you are deceiv'd, not I, you are deceiv'd: Was I so mad to bid you light your torches now? Light me your torches at the mid of noon, When as the sun-god rides in all his glory; Light me your torches then. PEDRO. Then we burn daylight.[223] HIERONIMO. Let it be burnt; night is a murd'rous slut, That would not have her treasons to be seen: And yonder pale-faced Hecate there, the moon, Doth give consent to that is done in darkness! And all those stars that gaze upon her face, Are aglets[224] on her sleeve, pins on her train; And those that should be powerful and divine, Do sleep in darkness, when they most should shine. PEDRO. Provoke them not, fair sir, with tempting words; The heavens are gracious, and your miseries And sorrow make you speak, you know not what. HIERONIMO. Villain, thou li'st, and thou dost nought But tell me I am mad! thou li'st, I am not mad! I know thee to be Pedro, and he Jaques. I'll prove it to thee; and, were I mad, how could I? Where was she the same night, when my Horatio was murder'd? She should have shone: search thou the book; Had the moon shone in my boy's face, there was a kind of grace That I know--nay, I do know--had the murd'rer seen him, His weapon would have fallen, and cut the earth, Had he been fram'd of nought but blood and death: Alack! when mischief doth it knows not what, What shall we say to mischief? _Enter_ ISABELLA. ISABELLA.