The Spanish Tragedie

[ACT III. SCENE 8.]

                [HIERONIMO's house.]

                Enter ISABELL and her MAID.

  ISA.  So that you say this hearb will purge the [eyes],
    And this the head? ah!  but none of them will purge the
        hart!
    No, thers no medicine left for my disease,
    Nor any physick to recure the dead.

                She runnes lunatick.

    Horatio!  O, wheres Horatio?

  MAIDE.  Good madam, affright not thus your-selfe
    With outrage for your sonne Horatio;
    He sleepes in quiet in the Elizian fields.

  ISA.  Why did I not giue you gownes and goodly things,
    Bought you a wistle and a whipstalke too,
    To be reuenged on their villanies?

  MAIDE.  Madame, these humors doe torment my soule.

  ISA.  My soule?  poore soule, thou talkes of things
    Thou knowest not what!  My soule hath siluer wings,
    That mounts me vp vnto the highest heauens—
    To heauen?  I, there sits up Horatio,
    Backt with troup of fierry cherubins
    Dauncing about his newly healed wounds,
    Singing sweet hymns and chaunting heauenly notes,
    Rare harmony to greet his innocence,
    That dyde, I, dyde a mirrour in our daies!
    But say, where shall I finde, the men, the murderers,
    That slew Horatio? whether shall I runne
    To finde them out, that murdered my sonne?

                Exeunt.