THE SPANISH TRAGEDY — DRAMATIS PERSONAE. — SCENE: Spain; and Portugal. — ACTVS PRIMVS. — [ACT I. SCENE 2.] — [ACT I. SCENE 3.]
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Title: The Spanish Tragedy
Author: Thomas Kyd
Release Date: February 19, 2011 [EBook #35330]
Language: English
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Produced by Richard Schwarz
1587
By Thomas Kyd
Containing the lamentable end of DON HORATIO, and BEL-IMPERIA: with the pitiful death of old HIERONIMO.
Newly corrected and amended of such gross faults as passed in the first impression.
At London
Printed by Edward Allde, for
Edward White
GHOST OF ANDREA |
REVENGE | the Chorus.
KING OF SPAIN.
VICEROY OF PORTUGAL.
DON PEDRO, the viceroy's brother.
DON CIPRIAN, duke of Castile.
HIERONIMO, knight-marshall of Spain.
BALTHAZAR, the Viceroy's son.
LORENZO, Don Ciprian's son [and Bel-imperia's brother].
HORATIO, Hieronimo's son.
ALEXANDRO |
VILLUPPO | lords of Portugal.
PEDRINGANO, servant of Bel-imperia.
SERBERINE, servant of Balthazar.
Spanish General, Portuguese Ambassador,
Hangman, Soldiers, Attendants, &c.
BEL-IMPERIA, Lorenzo's sister.
ISABELLA, Hieronimo's wife.
PAGE.
MESSENGER.
CHRISTOPHEL.
SERVANT.
SENEX (DON BAZULTO).
CITIZENS.
[Prologue]
Enter the GHOST OF ANDREA, and with him REVENGE.
GHOST. When this eternal substance of my soul
Did live imprison'd in my wanton flesh,
Each in their function serving others' need,
I was a courtier in the Spanish court:
My name was Don Andrea; my descent,
Though not ignoble, yet inferior far
To gracious fortunes of my tender youth,
For there, in prime and pride of all my years,
By duteous service and deserving love,
In secret I possess'd a worthy dame,
Which hight sweet Bel-imperia by name.
But in the harvest of my summer joys
Death's winter nipped the blossoms of my bliss,
Forcing divorce betwixt my love and me;
For in the late conflict with Portingal
My valour drew me into danger's mouth
Till life to death made passage through my wounds.
When I was slain, my soul descended straight
To pass the flowing stream of Acheron;
But churlish Charon, only boatman there,
Said that, my rites of burial not perform'd,
I might not sit amongst his passengers.
Ere Sol had slept three nights in Thetis' lap,
And slak'd his smoking chariot in her flood,
By Don Horatio, our knight-marshall's son,
My funerals and obsequies were done.
Then was the ferryman of hell content
To pass me over to the slimy strand
That leads to fell Avernus' ugly waves.
There, pleasing Cerberus with honeyed speech,
I passed the perils of the foremost porch.
Not far from hence, amidst ten thousand souls,
Sat Minos, Eacus and Rhadamant;
To whom no sooner 'gan I make approach,
To crave a passport for my wandering ghost,
But Minos in graven leaves of lottery
Drew forth the manner of my life and death.
"This knight," quoth he, "both liv'd and died in love;
And for his love tried fortune of the wars;
And by war's fortune lost both love and life."
"Why then," said Eacus, "convey him hence
To walk with lovers in our field of love
And the course of everlasting time
Under green myrtle-trees and cypress shades."
"No, no!" said Rhadamant, "it were not well
With loving souls to place a martialist.
He died in war, and must to martial fields,
Where wounded Hector lives in lasting pain,
And Achilles' Myrmidons do scour the plain."
Then Minos, mildest censor of the three,
Made this device, to end the difference:
"Send him," quoth he, "to our infernal king,
To doom him as best seems his Majesty."
To this effect my passport straight was drawn.
In keeping on my way to Pluto's court
Through dreadful shades of ever-glooming night,
I saw more sights than thousand tongues can tell
Or pens can write or mortal hearts can think.
Three ways there were: that on the right hand side
Was ready way unto the 'foresaid fields
Where lovers live and bloody martialists,
But either sort contain'd within his bounds;
The left hand path, declining fearfully,
Was ready downfall to the deepest hell,
Where bloody Furies shake their whips of steel,
And poor Ixion turns an endless wheel,
Where usurers are chok'd with melting gold,
And wantons are embrac'd with ugly snakes,
And murderers groan with never-killing wounds,
And perjur'd wights scalded in boiling lead,
And all foul sins with torments overwhelm'd;
'Twixt these two ways I trod the middle path,
Which brought me to the fair Elysian green,
In midst whereof there stands a stately tower,
The walls of brass, the gates of adamant.
Here finding Pluto with his Proserpine,
I show'd my passport, humbled on my knee.
Whereat fair Proserpine began to smile,
And begg'd that only she might give me doom.
Pluto was pleas'd, and seal'd it with a kiss.
Forthwith, Revenge, she rounded thee in th' ear,
And bad thee lead me though the gates of horn,
Where dreams have passage in the silent night.
No sooner had she spoke but we were here,
I wot not how, in the twinkling of an eye.
REVENGE. Then know, Andrea, that thou arriv'd
Where thou shalt see the author of thy death,
Don Balthazar, the prince of Portingal,
Depriv'd of life by Bel-imperia:
Here sit we down to see the mystery,
And serve for Chorus in this tragedy.
[ACT I. SCENE 1.]
[The Spanish Court]
Enter SPANISH KING, GENERAL, CASTILLE, HIERONIMO.
KING. Now say, lord general: how fares our camp?
GEN. All well, my sovereign liege, except some few
That are deceas'd by fortune of the war.
KING. But what portends thy cheerful countenance
And posting to our presence thus in haste?
Speak, man: hath fortune given us victory?
GEN. Victory, my liege, and that with little loss.
KING. Our Portugals will pay us tribute then?
GEN. Tribute, and wonted homage therewithal.
KING. Then blest be Heav'n, and Guider of the heav'ns,
From whose fair influence such justice flows!
CAST. O multum dilecte Deo, tibi militat aether,
Et conjuratae curvato poplite gentes
Succumbunt: recti soror est victoria juris!
KING. Thanks to my loving brother of Castille.
But, general, unfold in brief discourse
Your form of battle and your war's success,
That, adding all the pleasure of thy news
Unto the height of former happiness,
With deeper wage and gentle dignity
We may reward thy blissful chivalry.
GEN. Where Spain and Portingal do jointly knit
Their frontiers, leaning on each other's bound,
There met our armies in the proud array:
Both furnish'd well, both full of hope and fear,
Both menacing alike with daring shows,
Both vaunting sundry colours of device,
Both cheerly sounding trumpets, drums and fifes,
Both raising dreadful clamors to the sky,
That valleys, hills, and rivers made rebound
And heav'n itself was frighted with the sound.
Our battles both were pitch'd in squadron form,
Each corner strongly fenc'd with wings of shot;
But, ere we join'd and came to push of pike,
I brought a squadron of our readiest shot
From out our rearward to begin the fight;
They brought another wing to encounter us;
Meanwhile our ordnance play'd on either side,
And captains strove to have their valours try'd.
Don Pedro, their chief horsemen's colonel,
Did with his cornet bravely make attempt
To break the order of our battle ranks;
But Don Rogero, worthy man of war,
March'd forth against him with our musketeers
And stopp'd the malice of his fell approach.
While they maintain hot skirmish to and fro,
Both battles join and fall to handy blows,
Their violent shot resembling th' oceans rage
When, roaring loud and with a swelling tide,
It beats upon the rampiers of huge rocks,
And gapes to swallow neighbor-bounding lands.
Now, while Bellona rageth here and there,
Thick storms of bullets ran like winter's hail,
And shiver'd lances dark the troubled air;
Pede pes & cuspide cuspis,
Arma sonant armis, vir petiturque viro;
On every side drop captains to the ground,
And soldiers, some ill-maim'd, some slain outright:
Here falls a body sunder'd from his head;
There legs and arms lie bleeding on the grass,
Mingled with weapons and unbowel'd steeds,
That scattering over-spread the purple plain.
In all this turmoil, three long hours and more
The victory to neither part inclin'd,
Till Don Andrea with his brave lancers
In their main battle made so great a breach
That, half dismay'd, the multitude retir'd.
But Balthazar, the Portingales' young prince,
Brought rescue and encourag'd them to stay.
Here-hence the fight was eagerly renew'd,
And in that conflict was Andrea slain,—
Brave man-at-arms, but weak to Balthazar.
Yet, while the prince, insulting over him,
Breath'd out proud vaunts, sounding to our reproach,
Friendship and hardy valour join'd in one
Prick'd forth Horatio, our knight-marshall's son,
To challenge forth that prince in single fight.
Not long between these twain the fight endur'd,
But straight the prince was beaten from his horse
And forc'd to yield him prisoner to his foe.
When he was taken, all the rest fled,
And our carbines pursu'd them to death,
Till, Phoebus waning to the western deep,
Our trumpeters were charg'd to sound retreat.
KING. Thanks, good lord general, for these good news!
And, for some argument of more to come,
Take this and wear it for thy sovereign's sake.
Give him his chain.
But tell me now: hast thou confirm'd a peace?
GEN. No peace, my liege, but peace conditional,
That, if with homage tribute be well paid,
The fury of your forces will be stay'd.
And to this peace their viceroy hath subscrib'd,
Give the King a paper.
And made a solemn vow that during life
His tribute shall be truly paid to Spain.
KING. These words, these deeds become thy person well.
But now, knight-marshall, frolic with thy king,
For 'tis thy son that wins this battle's prize.
HIERO. Long may he live to serve my sovereign liege!
And soon decay unless he serve my liege!
A trumpet afar off.
KING. Nor thou nor he shall die without reward.
What means this warning of this trumpet's sound?
GEN. This tells me that your Grace's men of war,
Such as war's fortune hath reserv'd from death,
Come marching on towards your royal seat,
To show themselves before your Majesty;
For so gave I in charge at my depart.
Whereby by demonstration shall appear
That all, except three hundred or few more,
Are safe return'd and by their foes enrich'd.
The army enters, BALTHAZAR between LORENZO
and HORATIO, captive.
KING. A gladsome sight! I long to see them here.
They enter and pass by.
Was that the warlike prince of Portingal
That by our nephew was in triumph led?
GEN. It was, my liege, the prince of Portingal.
KING. But what was he that on the other side
Held him by th' arm as partner of the prize?
HIERO. That was my son, my gracious sovereign;
Of whom though from his tender infancy
My loving thoughts did never hope but well,
He never pleasd his father's eyes till now,
Nor fill'd my heart with overcloying joys.
KING. Go, let them march once more about these walls,
That staying them we may confer and talk
With our brave prisoner and his double guard.
[Exit a MESSENGER.]
Hieoronimo, it greatly pleaseth us
That in our victory thou have a share
By virtue of thy worthy son's exploit.
Enter again.
Bring hither the young prince of Portingal!
The rest march on, but, ere they be dismiss'd,
We will bestow on every soldier
Two ducats, and on every leader ten,
That they may know our largesse welcomes them.
Exeunt all [the army] but BAL[THAZAR],
LOR[ENZO], and HOR[ATIO].
KING. Welcome, Don Balthazar! Welcome nephew!
And thou, Horatio, thou art welcome too!
Young prince, although thy father's hard misdeeds
In keeping back the tribute that he owes
Deserve but evil measure at our hands,
Yet shalt thou know that Spain is honourable.
BALT. The trespass that my father made in peace
Is now controll'd by fortune of the wars;
And cards once dealt, it boots not ask why so.
His men are slain,—a weakening to his realm;
His colours seiz'd,—a blot unto his name;
His son distress'd,—a corsive to his heart;
These punishments may clear his late offence.
KING. Aye, Balthazar, if he observe this truce,
Our peace will grow the stronger for these wars.
Meanwhile live thou, though not in liberty,
Yet free from bearing any servile yoke;
For in our hearing thy deserts were great.
And in our sight thyself art gracious.
BALT. And I shall study to deserve this grace.
KING. But tell me,—for their holding makes me doubt:
To which of these twain art thou prisoner?
LOR. To me, my liege.
HOR. To me, my sovereign.
LOR. This hand first took his courser by the reins.
HOR. But first my lance did put him from his horse.
LOR. I seiz'd the weapon and enjoy'd it first.
HOR. But first I forc'd him lay his weapons down.
KING. Let go his arm, upon my privilege!
Let him go.
Say, worthy prince: to whether didst thou yield?
BALT. To him in courtesy; to this perforce;
He spake me fair, this other gave me strokes;
He promis'd life, this other threaten'd death;
He won my love, this other conquer'd me;
And, truth to say, I yield myself to both.
HIERO. But that I know your Grace is just and wise,
And might seem partial in this difference,
Enforc'd by nature and by law of arms,
My tongue should plead for young Horatio's right.
He hunted well that was a lion's death,
Not he that in a garment wore his skin;
So hares may pull dead lions by the beard.
KING. Content thee, marshall; thou shalt have no wrong,
And for thy sake thy son shall want to right.
Will both abide the censure of my doom?
LOR. I crave no better than your Grace awards.
HOR. Nor I, although I sit beside my right.
KING. Then by judgment thus your strife shall end:
You both deserve and both shall have reward.
Nephew, thou took'st his weapons and his horse:
His weapons and his horse are thy reward.
Horatio, thou did'st force him first to yield:
His ransom therefore is thy valour's fee;
Appoint the sum as you shall both agree.
But, nephew, thou shalt have the prince in guard,
For thine estate best fitteth such a guest;
Horatio's house were small for all his train.
Yet, in regard thy substance passeth his,
And that just guerdon may befall desert,
To him we yield the armour of the prince.
How likes Don Balthazar of this device?
BALT. Right well, my liege, if this proviso were:
That Don Horatio bear us company,
Whom I admire and love for chivalry.
KING. Horatio, leave him not that loves thee so.
Now let us hence, to see our soldiers paid,
And feast our prisoner as our friendly guest.
Exeunt.
[Portugal: the VICEROY'S palace.]
Enter VICEROY, ALEXANDRO, VILLUPPO.
VICE. Is our ambassador dispatch'd for Spain?
ALEX. Two days, my liege, are past since his depart.
VICE. And tribute payment gone along with him?
ALEX. Aye, my good lord.
VICE. Then rest we here a-while in our unrest;
And feed our sorrows with inward sighs,
For deepest cares break never into tears.
But wherefore sit I in a regal throne?
This better fits a wretch's endless moan.
Yet this is higher then my fortunes reach,
And therefore better than my state deserves.
Falls to the ground.
Aye, aye, this earth, image of melancholy,
Seeks him whom fates adjudge to misery!
Here let me lie! Now am I at the lowest!
Qui jacet in terra non habet unde cadat.
In me consumpsit vires fortuna nocendo,
Nil superest ut jam possit obesse magis.
Yes, Fortune may bereave me of my crown—
Here, take it now; let Fortune do her worst,
She shall not rob me of this sable weed.
O, no, she envies none but pleasant things.
Such is the folly of despiteful chance,
Fortune is blind and sees not my deserts,
So is she deaf and hears not my laments;
And, could she hear, yet is she willful mad,
And therefore will not pity my distress.
Suppose that she could pity me, what then?
What help can be expected at her hands
Whose foot is standing on a rolling stone
And mind more mutable then fickle winds?
Why wail I, then, where's hope of no redress?
O, yes, complaining makes my grief seem less.
My late ambition hath distain'd my faith,
My breach of faith occasion'd bloody wars,
Those bloody wars have spent my treasury,
And with my treasury my people's blood,
And with the blood my joy and best belov'd,—
My best belov'd, my sweet and only son!
O, wherefore went I not to war myself?
The cause was mine; I might have died for both.
My years were mellow, but his young and green:
My death were natural, but his was forc'd.
ALEX. No doubt, my liege, but still the prince survives.
VICE. Survives! Ay, where?
ALEX. In Spain, a prisoner by mischance of war.
VICE. Then they have slain him for his father's fault.
ALEX. That were a breach to common law of arms.
VICE. They reck no laws that meditate revenge.
ALEX. His ransom's worth will stay from foul revenge.
VICE. No; if he liv'd, the news would soon be here.
VILLUP. My sovereign, pardon the author of ill news,
And I'll bewray the fortune of thy son.
VICE. Speak on; I'll guerdon thee, whate'er it be.
Mine ear is ready to receive ill news,
My heart grown hard 'gainst mischief's battery;
Stand up, I say, and tell thy tale at large.
VILLUP. Then hear that truth which these mine eyes have seen:
When both the armies were in battle join'd.
Don Balthazar amidst the thickest troops,
To win renown, did wondrous feats of arms;
Amongst the rest I saw him hand-to-hand
In single fight with their lord general.
Till Alexandro, that here counterfeits
Under the colour of a duteous friend,
Discharg'd a pistol at the princes back,
As though he would have slain their general,
But therewithal Don Balthazar fell down;
And when he fell, then we began to fly;
But, had he liv'd, the day had sure been ours.
ALEX. O wicked forgery! O trait'rous miscreant!
VICE. Hold thou thy peace! But now, Villuppo, say:
Where then became the carcass of my son?
VILLUP. I saw them drag it to the Spanish tents.
VICE. Aye, aye, my nightly dreams have told me this!
Thou false, unkind, unthankful, traitorous beast!
Wherein had Balthazar offended thee,
That thou should betray him to our foes?
Was't Spanish gold that bleared so thine eyes
That thou couldst see no part of our deserts?
Perchance, because thou art Terserae's lord,
Thou hadst some hope to wear this diadem
If first my son and then myself were slain;
But thy ambitious thought shall break thy neck.
Aye, this was it that made thee spill his blood!
Takes the crown and puts it on again.
But I'll now wear it till thy blood be spilt.
ALEX. Vouchsafe, dread sovereign, to hear me speak!
VICE. Away with him! his sight is second hell!
Keep him till we determine his death.
If Balthazar be dead, he shall not live.
[They take him out.]
Villuppo, follow us for thy reward.
Exit VICE[ROY].
VILLUP. Thus have I with an envious forged tale
Deceiv'd the king, betray'd mine enemy,
And hope for guerdon of my villainy.
[Spain: the palace]
Enter HORATIO and BEL-IMPERIA.
BEL. Signior Horatio, this is the place and hour
Wherein I must entreat thee to relate
The circumstance of Don Andrea's death,
Who living was my garland's sweetest flower,
And in his death hath buried my delights.
HOR. For love of him and service to yourself,
I'll not refuse this heavy doleful charge;
Yet tears and sighs, I fear, will hinder me.
When both our armies were enjoin'd in fight,
Your worthy cavalier amidst the thickest,
For glorious cause still aiming at the fairest,
Was at the last by young Don Balthazar
Encounter'd hand-to-hand. Their fight was long,
Their hearts were great, their clamours menacing,
Their strength alike, their strokes both dangerous;
But wrathful Nemesis, that wicked power,
Envying at Andrea's praise and worth,
Cut short his life to end his praise and worth.
She, she herself, disguis'd in armour's mask,
As Pallas was before proud Pergamus,
Brought in a fresh supply of halberdiers,
Which punch'd his horse and ding'd him to the ground.
Then young Don Balthazar, with ruthless rage,
Taking advantage of his foe's distress,
Did finish what his halberdiers begun;
And left not till Andrea's life was done.
Then, though too late, incens'd with just remorse,
I with my band set forth against the prince,
And brought him prisoner from his halberdiers.
BEL. Would thou hadst slain him that so slew my love!
But then was Don Andrea's carcass lost?
HOR. No; that was it for which I chiefly strove,
Nor stepp'd I back till I recover'd him.
I took him up, and wound him in mine arms,
And, wielding him unto my private tent,
There laid him down and dew'd him with my tears,
And sigh'd and sorrow'd as became a friend.
But neither friendly sorrow, sighs and tears
Could win pale Death from his usurped right.
Yet this I did, and less I could not do:
I saw him honour'd with due funeral.
This scarf I pluck'd from off his lifeless arm,
And wear it in remembrance of my friend.
BEL. I know the scarf: would he had kept it still!
For, had he liv'd, he would have kept it still,
And worn it for his Bel-imperia's sake;
For 'twas my favour at his last depart.
But now wear thou it both for him and me;
For, after him, thou hast deserv'd it best.
But, for thy kindness in his life and death,
Be sure, while Bel-imperia's life endures,
She will be Don Horatio's thankful friend.
HOR. And, madame, Don Horatio will not slack
Humbly to serve fair Bel-imperia.
But now, if your good liking stand thereto,
I'll crave your pardon to go seek the prince;
For so the duke, your father, gave me charge.
Exit.
BEL. Aye, go, Horatio; leave me here alone,
For solitude best fits my cheerless mood.—
Yet what avails to wail Andreas death,
From whence Horatio proves my second love?
Had he not lov'd Andrea as he did,
He could not sit in Bel-imperia's thoughts.
But how can love find harbour in my breast,
Till I revenge the death of my belov'd?
Yes, second love shall further my revenge:
I'll love Horatio, my Andrea's friend,
The more to spite the prince that wrought his end;
And, where Don Balthazar, that slew my love,
Himself now pleads for favor at my hands,
He shall, in rigour of my just disdain,
Reap long repentance for his murderous deed,—
For what was't else but murderous cowardice,
So many to oppress one valiant knight,
Without respect of honour in the fight?
And here he comes that murder'd my delight.
Enter LORENZO and BALTHAZAR.
LOR. Sister, what means this melancholy walk?
BEL. That for a-while I wish no company.
LOR. But here the prince is come to visit you.
BEL. That argues that he lives in liberty.
BAL. No madam, but in pleasing servitude.
BEL. Your prison then, belike, is your conceit.
BAL. Aye, by conceit my freedom is enthrall'd.
BEL. Then with conceit enlarge yourself again.
BAL. What if conceit have laid my heart to gage?
BEL. Pay that you borrow'd, and recover it.
BAL. I die if it return from whence it lies.
BEL. A heartless man, and live? A miracle!
BAL. Aye, lady, love can work such miracles.
LOR. Tush, tush, my lord! let go these ambages,
And in plain terms acquaint her with your love.
BEL. What boots complaint, when there's no remedy?
BAL. Yes, to your gracious self must I complain,
In whose fair answer lies my remedy,
On whose perfection all my thoughts attend,
On whose aspect mine eyes find beauty's bower,
In whose translucent breast my heart is lodg'd.
BEL. Alas, my lord! These are but words of course,
And but devis'd to drive me from this place.
She, going in, lets fall her glove, which
HORATIO, coming out, takes up.
HOR. Madame, your glove.
BEL. Thanks, good Horatio; take it for thy pains.
[BEL-IMPERIA exits.]
BAL. Signior Horatio stoop'd in happy time!
HOR. I reap'd more grace that I deserv'd or hop'd.
LOR. My lord, be not dismay'd for what is past;
You know that women oft are humorous:
These clouds will overblow with little wind;
Let me alone, I'll scatter them myself.
Meanwhile let us devise to spend the time
In some delightful sports and revelling.
HOR. The king, my lords, is coming hither straight
To feast the Portingal ambassador;
Things were in readiness before I came.
BAL. Then here it fits us to attend the king,
To welcome hither our ambassador,
And learn my father and my country's health.
Enter the banquet, TRUMPETS, the KING,
and AMBASSADOR.
KING. See, lord ambassador, how Spain entreats
Their prisoner Balthazar, thy viceroy's son:
We pleasure more in kindness than in wars.
AMBASS. Sad is our king, and Portingal laments,
Supposing that Don Balthazar is slain.
BAL. [aside] So am I, slain by beauty's tyranny!—
You see, my lord, how Balthazar is slain:
I frolic with the Duke of Castille's son,
Wrapp'd every hour in pleasures of the court,
And grac'd with favours of his Majesty.
KING. Put off your greetings till our feast be done;
Now come and sit with us, and taste our cheer.
Sit to the banquet.
Sit down, young prince, you are our second guest;
Brother, sit down; and nephew, take your place.
Signior Horatio, wait thou upon our cup,
For well thou hast deserved to be honour'd.
Now, lordings, fall too: Spain is Portugal,
And Portugal is Spain; we both are friends;
Tribute is paid, and we enjoy our right.
But where is old Hieronimo, our marshall?
He promis'd us, in honour of our guest,
To grace our banquet with some pompous jest.
Enter HIERONIMO with a DRUM, three KNIGHTS,
each with scutcheon; then he fetches three
KINGS; they take their crowns and them
captive.
Hieronimo, this makes content mine eye,
Although I sound not well the mystery.
HIERO. The first arm'd knight that hung his scutcheon up
He takes the scutcheon and gives it to
the KING.
Was English Robert, Earle of Gloucester,
Who, when King Stephen bore sway in Albion,
Arriv'd with five and twenty thousand men
In Portingal, and, by success of war,
Enforc'd the king, then but a Saracen,
To bear the yoke of the English monarchy.
KING. My lord of Portingal, by this you see
That which may comfort both your king and you,
And make your late discomfort seem the less.
But say, Hieronimo: what was the next?
HIERO. The second knight that hung his scutcheon up
He doth as he did before.
Was Edmond, Earle of Kent in Albion.
When English Richard wore the diadem,
He came likewise and razed Lisbon walls,
And took the king of Portingal in fight,—
For which, and other such service done,
He after was created Duke of York.
KING. This is another special argument
That Portingal may deign to bear our yoke,
When it by little England hath been yok'd.
But now, Hieronimo, what were the last?
HIERO. The third and last, not least in our account,
Doing as before.
Was, as the rest, a valiant Englishman,
Brave John of Gaunt, the Duke of Lancaster,
As by his scutcheon plainly may appear:
He with a puissant army came to Spain
And took our King of Castille prisoner.
AMBASS. This is an argument for our viceroy
That Spain may not insult for her success,
Since English warriors likewise conquer'd Spain
And made them bow their knees to Albion.
KING. Hieronimo, I drink to thee for this device,
Which hath pleas'd both the ambassador and me:
Pledge me, Hieronimo, if thou love the king!
Takes the cup of HORATIO.
My lord, I fear we sit but over-long,
Unless our dainties were more delicate,—
But welcome are you to the best we have.
Now let us in, that you may be dispatch'd;
I think our council is already set.
Exeunt omnes.
[CHORUS.]
ANDREA. Come we for this from depth of under ground,—
To see him feast that gave me my death's wound?
These pleasant sights are sorrow to my soul:
Nothing but league and love and banqueting!
REVENGE. Be still, Andrea; ere we go from hence,
I'll turn their friendship into fell despite,
Their love to mortal hate, their day to night,
Their hope into despair, their peace to war,
Their joys to pain, their bliss to misery.