Act 3 — [Scene VII.][810]

Hier. Where shall I run to breathe abroad my woes, My woes, whose weight hath wearied the earth? Or mine exclaims, that have surcharg’d the air With ceaseless plaints for my deceased son? The blust’ring winds, conspiring with my words,5 At my lament have mov’d the leafless trees, Disrob’d the meadows of their flow’red green, Made mountains marsh with spring-tides of my tears, And broken through the brazen gates of hell. Yet still tormented is my tortured soul10 With broken sighs and restless passions, That, winged, mount; and, hovering in the air, Beat at the windows of the brightest heavens, Soliciting for justice and revenge: But they are plac’d in those empyreal[811] heights,15 Where, countermur’d[812] with walls of diamond, I find the place impregnable; and they Resist my woes, and give my words no way.

Hier. And yet, though somewhat nearer me concerns, I will, to ease the grief that I sustain, Take truce with sorrow while I read on this. “My lord, I write,[813] as mine extremes requir’d, That you would labour my delivery:35 If you neglect, my life is desperate, And in my death I shall reveal the troth. You know, my lord, I slew him for your sake, And was confed’rate with the prince and you; Won by rewards and hopeful promises,40 I holp to murder Don Horatio too.”— Holp he to murder mine Horatio? And actors in th’ accursed tragedy Wast thou, Lorenzo, Balthazar and thou, Of whom my son, my son deserv’d so well?45 What have I heard, what have mine eyes beheld? O sacred heavens, may it come to pass That such a monstrous and detested deed, So closely smother’d, and so long conceal’d, Shall thus by this be venged or reveal’d?50 Now see I what I durst not then suspect, That Bel-imperia’s letter was not feign’d. Nor feigned she, though falsely they have wrong’d Both her, myself, Horatio, and themselves. Now may I make compare ’twixt hers and this, Of every accident I ne’er could find55 Till now, and now I feelingly perceive They did what heav’n unpunish’d would not leave. O false Lorenzo! are these thy flattering looks? Is this the honour that thou didst my son?60 And Balthazar—bane to thy soul and me!— Was this the ransom he reserv’d thee for? Woe to the cause of these constrained wars! Woe to thy baseness and captivity, Woe to thy birth, thy body, and thy soul,65 Thy cursed father, and thy conquer’d self! And bann’d with bitter execrations be The day and place where he did pity thee! But wherefore waste I mine unfruitful words, When nought but blood will satisfy my woes?70 I will go plain me to my lord the king, And cry aloud for justice through the court, Wearing the flints with these my withered feet; And either purchase justice by entreats, Or tire them all with my revenging threats.75 Exit.