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.

ISA. Then is he gone? and is my sonne gone too?
O, gush out, teares! fountains and flouds of teares!
Blow, sighes, and raise and euerlasting storme;
For outrage fits our cursed wretchedness.

HIERO. Sweet louely rose, ill pluckt before thy time!
Faire, worthy sonne, not conquerd, but betraid!
Ile kisse thee now, for words with teares are [stainde].