Enter LORENZO, BALTHAZAR, CERBERIN, PEDRINGANO, disguised. LOR. My lord, away with her! take her aside! O sir, forbeare, your valour is already tride. Quickly dispatch, my maisters. Th[e]y hang him in the arbor. HOR. What, will you murder me? LOR. I; thus! and thus! these are the fruits of loue! They stab him. BEL. O, saue his life, and let me dye for him! O, saue him, brother! saue him, Balthazar! I loued Horatio, but he loued not me. BAL. But Balthazar loues Bel-imperia. LOR. Although his life were still ambitious, proud, Yet is he at the highest now he is dead. BEL.  Murder! murder! helpe! Hieronimo, helpe! LOR. Come, stop her mouth! away with her! Exeunt. Enter HIERONIMO in his shirt, &c. HIERO. What outcried pluck me from my naked bed, And chill my throbbing hart with trembling feare, Which neuer danger yet could daunt before? Who cals Hieronimo? speak; heare I am! I did not slumber; therefore twas no dreame. No, no; it was some woman cride for helpe. And heere within this garden did she crie, And in this garden must I rescue her. But stay! what murderous spectacle is this? A man hanged vp, and all the murderers gone! And in the bower, to lay the guilt on me!     This place was made for pleasure not for death. He cuts him downe. Those garments that he weares I oft haue seene,—     Alas! it is Horatio, my sweet sonne! O, no; but he that whilome was my sonne! O, was it thou that call'dst me from my bed? O, speak, if any sparke of life remaine! I am thy father. Who hath slaine my sonne? What sauadge monster, not of humane kinde, Hath heere beene glutted with thy harmeles blood, And left they bloudie corpes dishonoured heere, For me amidst these darke and dreadfull shades To drowne thee with an ocean of my teares? O heauens, why made you night, to couer sinne? By day this deed of darknes had not beene. O earth, why didst thou not in time deuoure The [vile] prophaner of this sacred bower? O poore Horatio, what hadst thou misdoone To leese thy life ere life was new begun? O wicked butcher, what-so-ere thou wert, How could thou strangle vertue and desert? Ay me, most wretched! that haue lost my ioy In leesing my Horatio, my sweet boy! Enter ISABELL. ISA. My husbands absence makes my hart to throb. Hieronimo! HIERO. Heere, Isabella. Helpe me to lament; For sighes are stopt, and all my teares are spent. ISA. What worlde of griefe—my sonne Horatio! O wheres the author of this endles woe? HIERO. To know 

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