Dear Hieronimo, come in a-doors, O, seek not means so to increase thy sorrow. HIERONIMO. Indeed, Isabella, we do nothing here; I do not cry, ask Pedro and Jaques: Not I, indeed--we are merry, very merry. ISABELLA. How? be merry here, be merry here? Is not this the place, and this the very tree, Where my Horatio died, where he was murder'd? HIERONIMO. Was--do not say what: let her weep it out. This was the tree; I set it of a kernel: And when our hot Spain could not let it grow, But that the infant and the human sap Began to wither, duly twice a morning Would I be sprinkling it with fountain-water. At last it grew and grew, and bore and bore; Till at the length it grew a gallows, and Did bear our son: it bore thy fruit and mine: [_One knocks within at the door._ O wicked, wicked plant! See who knocks there. PEDRO. It is a painter, sir. HIERONIMO. Bid him come in, and paint some comfort, For surely there's none lives but painted comfort. Let him come in; one knows not what may chance: God's will [it was], that I should set this tree. But even so masters ungrateful servants rear[225] From nought, and then they hate them that Did bring them up. _Enter the_ PAINTER. PAINTER. God bless you, sir. HIERONIMO. Wherefore? why, thou scornful villain? How, where, or by what means should I be bless'd?] ISABELLA. What wouldst thou have, good fellow? PAINTER. Justice, madam. HIERONIMO. O ambitious beggar, wouldst thou have that, That lives not in the world? Why, all the undelved mines cannot buy An ounce of justice, 'tis a jewel so Inestimable. I tell thee, God hath Engrossed all justice in his hands, And there is none but what comes from him. PAINTER. O, then I see that God must right me for my Murder'd son. HIERONIMO. How? was thy son murder'd? PAINTER. Ay, sir, no man did hold a son so dear. HIERONIMO. What, not as thine? that is a lie, As massy as the earth: I had a son, Whose least unvalued hair did weigh A thousand of thy sons; and he was murder'd. PAINTER. Alas! sir, I had no more but he. HIERONIMO.