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 Bel-imperia. But night, the cov'rer of accursed crimes, With pitchy silence hush'd these traitors' harms, And lent them leave--for they had sorted 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 out-cry 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, Portuguese, whose loss resembles mine! If thou canst weep upon thy Balthazar, 'Tis like I wail'd for my Horatio. And you, my lord, whose reconciled son March'd in a net and thought himself unseen, And rated me for a brainsick lunacy, With "God amend that mad Hieronimo!"-- How can you brook our play's catastrophe? And here behold this bloody handkerchief, Which at Horatio's death I weeping dipp'd Within the river of his bleeding wounds! It as propitious, see, I have reserv'd, And never hath it left my bloody heart, Soliciting remembrance of my vow With these, O these accursed murderers! Which now perform'd, my heart is satisfied. And to this end the bashaw I became, That might revenge me on Lorenzo's life, Who therefore was appointed to the part And was to represent the knight of Rhodes, That I might kill him more conveniently. So, viceroy, was this Balthazar thy son-- That Suleiman which Bel-imperia In person of Perseda murdered,-- Solely appointed to that tragic part, That she might slay him that offended her. Poor Bel-imperia miss'd her part in this: For, though the story saith she should have died, Yet I, of kindness and of care for her, Did otherwise determine of her end. But love of him whom they did hate too much Did urge her resolution to be such. And princes, now behold Hieronimo, Author and actor in this tragedy, Bearing his latest fortune in his fist; And will as resolute conclude his part As any of the actors gone before. And, gentles, thus I end my play! Urge no more words, I have no more to say. He runs to hang himself.