Act 3 — [Scene XI.][826]

1 Port. By your leave, sir. Hier. [827][’T is neither as you think, nor as you think, Nor as you think: you’re wide all. These slippers are not mine, they were my son Horatio’s. My son? and what’s a son? A thing begot5 Within a pair of minutes—thereabout; A lump bred up in darkness, and doth serve To ballace[828] these light creatures we call women: And, at nine months’ end, creeps forth to light. What is there yet in a son,10 To make a father dote, rave, or run mad? Being born, it pouts, cries, and breeds teeth. What is there yet in a son? He must be fed, Be taught to go, and speak. Ay, or yet Why might not a man love a calf as well?15 Or melt in passion o’er a frisking kid, As for a son? Methinks, a young bacon, Or a fine little smooth horse colt, Should move a man as much as doth a son: For one of these, in very little time,20 Will grow to some good use, whereas a son, The more he grows in stature and in years, The more unsquar’d, unbevell’d,[829] he appears, Reckons his parents among the rank of fools, Strikes care upon their heads with his mad riots,25 Makes them look old before they meet with age. This is a son!—And what a loss were this, Consider’d truly?—O, but my Horatio Grew out of reach of these insatiate humours: He lov’d his loving parents:30 He was my comfort, and his mother’s joy, The very arm that did hold up our house: Our hopes were stored up in him, None but a damned murderer could hate him. He had not seen the back of nineteen year,35 When his strong arm unhors’d The proud Prince Balthazar, and his great mind, Too full of honour, took him unto[830] mercy. That valiant, but ignoble Portingale! Well, heaven is heaven still!40 And there is Nemesis, and Furies, And things call’d whips, And they sometimes do meet with murderers: They do not always scape, that is some comfort. Ay, ay, ay: and then time steals on,45 And steals, and steals, till violence leaps forth Like thunder wrapt in a ball of fire, And so doth bring confusion to them all.] Good leave have you: nay, I pray you go, For I’ll leave you, if you can leave me so.50 2 Port. Pray you, which is the next way to my lord the duke’s? Hier. The next way from me. 1 Port. To his house, we mean. Hier. O, hard by: ’t is yon house that you see. 2 Port. You could not tell us if his son were there? Hier. Who, my Lord Lorenzo? 1 Port. Ay, sir. He goeth in at one door and comes out at another. Hier. O, forbear! For other talk for us far fitter were.56 But if you be importunate to know The way to him, and where to find him out, Then list to me, and I’ll resolve your doubt. There is a path upon your left-hand side60 That leadeth from a guilty conscience Unto a forest of distrust and fear— A darksome place, and dangerous to pass: There shall you meet with melancholy thoughts, Whose haleful humours if you but uphold,65 It will conduct you to despair and death— Whose rocky cliffs when you have once beheld, Within a hugy dale of lasting night, That, kindled with the world’s iniquities, Doth cast up filthy and detested fumes:—70 Not far from thence, where murderers have built A habitation for their cursed souls, There, in a brazen cauldron, fix’d by Jove, In his fell wrath, upon a sulphur flame, Yourselves shall find Lorenzo bathing him75 In boiling lead and blood of innocents. 1 Port. Ha, ha, ha! Hier. Ha, ha, ha! Why, ha, ha, ha! Farewell, good ha, ha, ha! Exit. 2 Port. Doubtless this man is passing lunatic, Or imperfection of his age doth make him dote. Come, let ’s away to seek my lord the duke. 81 Exeunt.