The Spanish Tragedie. Thomas Kyd

Deserue but euill measure at our hands,

       Yet shalt thou know that Spaine is honorable.

       BALT. The trespasse that my father made in peace

       Is now controlde by fortune of the warres;

       And cards once dealt, it bootes not aske why so.

       His men are slaine,—a weakening to his realme;

       His colours ceaz'd,—a blot vnto his name;

       His sonne distrest,—a corsiue to his hart;

       These punishments may cleare his late offence.

       KING. I, Balthazar, if he obserue this truce,

       Our peace will grow the stronger for these warres.

       Meane-while liue thou, though not in libertie,

       Yet free from bearing any seruile yoake;

       For in our hearing thy deserts were great.

       And in our sight thy-selfe art gratious.

       BALT. And I shall studie to deserue this grace.

       KING. But tell me,—for their holding makes me doubt:

       To Which of these twaine art thou prisoner?

       LOR. To me, my liege.

       HOR. To me, my soueraigne.

       LOR. This hand first tooke his courser by the raines.

       HOR. But first my launce did put him from his horse.

       LOR. I ceaz'd the weapon and enioyde it first.

       HOR. But first I forc'd him lay his weapons downe.

       KING. Let goe his arm, vpon my priviledge!

       Let him goe.

       Say, worthy prince: to whether didst thou yeeld?

       BALT. To him in curtesie; to this perforce;

       He spake me faire, this other gaue me strokes;

       He promisde life, this other threatned death;

       He wan my loue, this other conquerd me;

       And, truth to say, I yeeld my-selfe to both.

       HIERO. But that I [know] your Grace is iust and wise,

       And might seeme partiall in this difference,

       Inforct by nature and by law of armes,

       My tongue should plead for young Horatios right.

       He hunted well that was a lyons death,

       Not he that in a garment wore his skin;

       So hares may pull dead lyons by the beard.

       KING. Content thee, marshall; thou shalt haue no wrong,

       And for thy sake thy sonne shall want to right.

       Will both abide the censure of my doome?

       LOR. I craue no better than your Grace awards.

       HOR. Nor I, although I sit beside my right.

       KING. Then by iudgement thus your strife shall end:

       You both deserue and both shall haue reward.

       Nephew, thou tookst his weapon[s] and his horse:

       His weapons and his horse are thy reward.

       Horatio, thou didst force him first to yeeld:

       His ransome therefore is thy valours fee;

       Appoint the sum as you shall both agree.

       But, nephew, thou shalt haue the prince in guard,

       For thine estate best fitteth such a guest;

       Horatios house were small for all his traine.

       Yet, in regard they substance passeth his,

       And that iust guerdon may befall desert,

       To him we yeeld the armour of the prince.

       How likes don Balthazar of this deuice?

       BALT. Right well, my liege, if this prouizo were:

       That Don Horatio beare vs company,

       Whome I admire and loue for chiualrie.

       KING. Horatio, leaue him not that loues thee so.

       Now let vs hence, to see our souldiers paide,

       And feast our prisoner as our friendly guest.

       Exeunt.

[ACT I. SCENE 2.]

      [Portugal: the VICEROY'S palace.]

       Enter VICEROY, ALEXANDRO, VILLUPPO.

       VICE. Is our embassadour dispatcht for Spaine?

       ALEX. Two daies, my liege, are past since his depart.

       VICE. And tribute paiment gone along with him?

       ALEX. I, my good lord.

       VICE. Then rest we heere a-while in our vnrest;

       And feede our sorrowes with inward sighes,

       For deepest cares break neuer into teares.

       But wherefore sit I in a regall throne?

       This better fits a wretches endles moane.

       Yet this is higher then my fortunes reach,

       And therefore better then my state deserues.

       Falles to the grounde.

       I, I, this earth, image of melancholly,

       Seeks him whome fates [adiudge] to miserie!

       Heere let me lye! Now am I at the lowest!

       Qui iacet in terra non habet vnde cadat.

       In me concumpsit vires fortuna nocendo,

       Nil superest vt iam possit obesse magis.

       Yes, Fortune may bereaue me of my crowne—

       Heere, take it now; let Fortune doe her worst,

       She shall now rob me of this sable weed.

       O, no, she enuies none but pleasent things.

       Such is the folly of despightfull chance,

       Fortune is blinde and sees not my deserts,

       So is she deafe and heares not my laments;

       And, coulde she heare, yet is she willfull mad,

       And therefore will not pittie my distresse.

       Suppose that she coulde pittie me, what then?

       What helpe can be expected at her hands

       Whose foote is standing on a rowling stone

       And minde more mutable then fickle windes?

       Why waile I, then, wheres hope of no redresse?

       O, yes, complaining makes my greefe seeme lesse.

       My late ambition hath distaind my faith,

       My breach of faith occaisioned bloudie warres,

       Those bloudie warres haue spent my treasur[i]e,

       And with my treasur[i]e my peoples blood,

       And with the blood my ioy and best beloued,—

       My best beloued, my sweet and onely sonne!

       O, wherefore went I not to warre my-selfe?

       The cause was mine; I might haue died for both.

       My yeeres were mellow, but his young and greene:

       My death were naturall, but his was forced.

       ALEX. No doubt, my liege, but still the prince suruiues.

       VICE. Suruiues! I, where?

       ALEX. In Spaine, a prisoner by michance of warre.