THE SPANISH TRAGEDY
by Thomas Kyd
EXT: HORATIO'S GARDEN
What outcries pluck me from my naked bed,
And chill my throbbing heart with trembling fear,
Which never danger yet could daunt before?
Who calls Hieronimo? speak; hear I am!
I did not slumber; therefore 'twas no dream.
No, no; it was some woman cried for help.
And here within this garden did she cry,
And in this garden must I rescue her.
But stay! what murderous spectacle is this?
A man hang'd up, 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 down.)
Those garments that he wears I oft have seen,-
Alas! it is Horatio, my sweet son!
O, no; but he that whilome was my son!
O, was it thou that call'dst me from my bed?
O, speak, if any spark of life remain!
I am thy father. Who hath slain my son?
What savage monster, not of human kind,
Hath here been glutted with thy harmless blood,
And left thy bloody corpse dishonour'd here,
For me amidst these dark and dreadful shades
To drown thee with an ocean of my tears?
O heav'ns, why made you night, to cover sin?
By day this deed of darkness had not been.
O earth, why didst thou not in time devour
The vile profaner of this sacred bower?
O poor Horatio, what hadst thou misdone
To leese thy life ere life was new begun?
O wicked butcher, whatsoe'er thou wert,
How could thou strangle virtue and desert?
Ay me, most wretched! that have lost my joy
In leesing my Horatio, my sweet boy!