Kyd, Thomas, 1558-1594 / 2008-07-23 00:00:00

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 the author were some ease of greefe,
For in reuenge my hart would finde releefe.
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