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