least the triple-headed porter should Denye my passage to the slimy strond, The Thracian poet thou shalt counterfeite; Come on, old father, be my Orpheus; And, if thou canst no notes vpon the harpe, Then sound the burden of thy sore harts greefe Till we do gaine that Proserpine may graunt Reuenge on them that murd[er]red my sonne. Then will I rent and teare them thus and thus, Shiuering their limmes in peeces with my teeth! Teare the papers. I CIT. Oh, sir, my declaration! Exit HIERONIMO and they after. II CIT. Saue my bond! Enter HIERONIMO. II CIT. Saue my bond! III CIT.              Alas my lease, it cost me Ten pound, and you, my lord, haue torne the same! HIERO. That can not be, I gaue it neuer a wound; Shew me one drop of bloud fall from the same! How is it possible I should slay it then? Tush, no! Run after, catch me if you can! Exeunt all but the OLDE MAN [DON BAZULTO]. BAZULTO remaines till HIERONIMO enters againe, who, staring him the face, speakes:      And art thou come, Horatio, from the depth, To aske for iustice in this vpper earth? T[o] tell thy father thou art vnreuenged? To wring more teares from Isabellas eies, Whose lights are dimd with ouer-long laments? Goe back, my sonne, complaine to Eacus; For heeres no iustice. Gentle boy, begone; For iustice is exiled from the earth. H[i]eronimo will beare thee company. Thy mother cries on righteous Radamant For iust reuenge against the murderers.    [BAZULTO]. Alas, my l[ord], whence springs this troubled speech? HIERO. But let me looke on my Horatio:     Sweet boy, how art thou chang'd in deaths black shade! Had Proserpine no pittie on thy youth, But suffered thy fair crimson-colourd spring With withered winter to be blasted thus? Horatio, thou are older then thy father:     Ah, ruthless father, that fauour thus transformess. BA. Ah, my good lord, I am not your yong sonne. HIE. What! not my sonne? thou then a Furie art Sent from the emptie kingdome of blacke night To summon me to make appearance Before grim Mynos and iust Radamant, To plague Hieronimo, that is remisse And seekes not vengeance for Horatios death. BA. I am a greeued man, and not a ghost, That came for iustice for my murdered sonne. HIE. I, now I know thee, now thou namest thy sonne; Thou art the liuely image of my griefe:     Within thy face sorrowes I may see; The eyes are [dim'd] with teares, they cheekes are wan, They forehead troubled, and thy muttring lips Murmure sad words abruptly broken off     

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