blustring winds, conspiring with my words, At my lament haue moued to leaueless trees, Disroabde the medowes of their flowred greene, Made mountains marsh with spring-tides of my teares, And broken through the brazen gates of hell; Yet still tormented is my tortured soule With broken sighes and restles passions, That, winged, mount, and houering in the aire, Beat at the windowes of the brightest heauens, Soliciting for iustice and reuenge. But they are plac't in those imperiall heights, Where, countermurde with walles of diamond, I finde the place impregnable, and they Resist my woes and giue my words no way. Enter HANGMAN with a letter. HANG. O Lord, sir! God blesse you, sir! The man, sir,— Petergade, sir: he that was so full of merie conceits— HIER. Wel, what of him? HANG. O Lord, sir! he went the wrong way; the fellow had a faire commission to the contrary. Sir, heere is his pasport, I pray you, sir; we haue done him wrong. HIERO. I warrant thee; giue it me. HANG. You will stand between the gallowes and me? HIERO. I, I! HANG. I thank your l[ord] worship. Exit HANGMAN. HIERO. And yet, though somewhat neerer me concernes I will, to ease the greefe that I sustaine, Take truce with sorrow while I read on this. [Reads] "My lord, I writ, as mine extreames require, That you would labour my deliuerie: If you neglect, my life is desperate, And in my death I shall reueale the troth. You know, my lord, I slew him for your sake, And was confederate with the prince and you; Wonne by rewards and hopefull promises, I holpe to murder Don Horatio too."— Holpe he to murder mine Horatio? And actors in th' accursed tragedie Wast thou, Lorenzo? Bathazar and thou, Of whome my sone, my sonne deseru'd so well? What haue I heard? what haue mine eies behelde? O sacred heauens, may it come to passe That such a monstrous and detested deed, So closely smootherd and so long conceald, Shall thus by this be [revenged] or reuealed? Now see I, what I durst not then suspect, That Bel-imperias letter was not fainde, Nor fained she, though falsly they haue wrongd Both her, my-selfe, Horatio and themselues. Now may I make compare twixt hers and this Of euerie accident. I neere could finde Till now, and now I feelingly perceiue, They did what Heauen vnpunisht [should] not leaue. O false Lorenzo! are these thy flattering lookes? Is this honour that thou didst my sonne? And, Balthazar,—bane to thy soule and me!— What this the ransome he reseru'd [for thee]? Woe to the cause of these constrained warres! Woe to
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