And on herself she would be thus reveng'd. [_Stabs herself._ KING. Well said, old marshal, this was bravely done. HIERONIMO. But Bell'-Imperia plays Perseda well. VICEROY. Were this in earnest, Bell'-Imperia, You would be better to my son than so. KING. But now what follows for[310] Hieronimo? HIERONIMO. Marry, this follows for Hieronimo: Here break we off our sundry languages, And thus conclude I in our vulgar tongue. Happily you think (but bootless are[311] your thoughts) That this is fabulously counterfeit; And that we do as all tragedians do, To die to-day for fashioning our scene (The death of Ajax or some Roman peer), And in a minute starting up again, Revive to please to-morrow's audience: No, princes; know I am Hieronimo, The hopeless father of a hapless son, Whose tongue is tun'd[312] to tell his latest tale, Not to excuse gross errors in the play. I see, your looks urge instance of these words; Behold the reason urging me to this: [_He shows his dead son._ See here my show, look on this spectacle; Here lay my hope, and here my hope hath end: Here lay my heart, and here my heart was slain: Here lay my treasure, here my treasure lost: Here lay my bliss, and here my bliss bereft: But hope, heart, treasure, joy, and bliss, All fled, fail'd, died: yea, all decay'd with this. From forth these wounds came breath that gave me life; They murder'd me, that made these fatal marks: The cause was love, whence grew this mortal hate; The hate, Lorenzo and young Balthazar; The love, my son to Bell'-Imperia: But night, the coverer of accursed crimes, With pitchy silence hush'd these traitors'[313] harms, And lent them leave, for they had sorted[314] leisure To take advantage in my garden-plot Upon my son, my dear Horatio: There merciless they butcher'd up my boy, In black dark night, to pale dim cruel death. He shrieks, I heard; and yet (methinks) I hear His dismal outcry echo in the air: With soonest speed I hasted to the noise; Where hanging on a tree I found my son, Through girt with wounds, and slaughter'd as you see: And griev'd I, think you, at this spectacle? Speak, Portugal, whose loss resembles[315] mine, If thou canst weep upon thy Balthazar, 'Tis like I wail'd[316] for my Horatio.-- And you, my lord, whose reconciled son March'd in a net, and thought himself unseen, And rated me for brainsick lunacy, With[317]--God, amend that mad Hieronimo! How can you brook our play's catastrophe? And here behold this bloody handkerchief,