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
By force of windie sighes thy spirit breathes;
And all this sorrow riseth for thy sonne,
And selfe-same sorrow feele I for my sonne.
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