The Spanish Tragedy (1587)

By Thomas Kyd

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

GHOST OF ANDREA |

REVENGE | the Chorus.

KING OF SPAIN.

VICEROY OF PORTUGAL.

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, Old Man, Painter Page,

Hangman, Citizens, Soldiers, Attendants, &c.

BEL-IMPERIA, Lorenzo’s sister.

ISABELLA, Hieronimo’s wife.

PAGE.

MESSENGER.

CHRISTOPHEL.

SERVANT.

SENEX (DON BAZULTO).

CITIZENS.

Enter Hieronimo, with a book in his hand.

Vindicta mihi!

Ay, heav’n will be reveng’d of every ill;

Nor will they suffer murder unrepaid.

Then stay, Hieronimo, attend their will:

For mortal men may not appoint their time!—

‘Per scelus semper tutum est sceleribus iter.’

Strike, and strike home, where wrong is offer’d thee;

For evils unto ills conductors be,

And death’s the worst of resolution.

For he that thinks with patience to contend

To quiet life, his life shall easily end.—

‘Fata si miseros juvant, habes salutem;

Fata si vitam negant, habes sepulchrum’:

If destiny thy miseries do ease,

Then hast thou health, and happy shalt thou be;

If destiny deny thee life, Hieronimo,

Yet shalt thou be assured of a tomb—:

If neither, yet let this thy comfort be:

Heav’n cov’reth him that hath no burial.

And to conclude, I will revenge his death!

But how? not as the vulgar wits of men,

With open, but inevitable ills,

As by a secret, yet a certain mean,

Which under kindship will be cloaked best.

Wise men will take their opportunity

Closely and safely, fitting things to time,—

But in extremes advantage hath no time;

And therefore all times fit not for revenge.

Thus therefore will I rest me in unrest,

Dissembling quiet in unquietness,

Not seeming that I know their villanies,

That my simplicity may make them think,

That ignorantly I will let all slip;

For ignorance, I wot, and well they know.

Remedium malorum iners est.

Nor ought avails it me to menace them

Who, as a wintry storm upon a plain,

Will bear me down with their nobility.

No, no, Hieronimo, thou must enjoin

Thine eyes to observation, and thy tongue

To milder speeches than thy spirit affords,

Thy heart to patience, and thy hands to rest,

Thy cap to courtesy, and thy knee to bow,

Till to revenge thou know, when, where and how.

[A noise within.]

How now, what noise? what coil is that you keep?

[ACT IV. SCENE III.]

Enter Hieronimo; he knocks up the curtain.

Enter the Duke of Castile.

CAST: How now, Hieronimo, where’s your fellows,

That you take all this pain?

HIER: O sir, it is for the author’s credit,

To look that all things may go well.

But, good my lord, let me entreat your grace,

To give the king the copy of the play:

This is the argument of what we show.

CAST: I will, Hieronimo.

HIER: One thing more, my good lord.

CAST: What’s that?

HIER: Let me entreat your grace

That, when the train are pass’d into the gallery,

You would vouchsafe to throw me down the key.

CAST: I will, Hieronimo.

[Exit Castile.]

HIER: What, are you ready, Balthazar?

Bring a chair and a cushion for the king.

Enter Balthazar, with a chair.

Well done, Balthazar! hang up the title:

Our scene is Rhodes;—what, is your beard on?

BAL: Half on; the other is in my hand.

HIER: Despatch for shame; are you so long?

[Exit Balthazar.]

Bethink thyself, Hieronimo,

Recall thy wits, recount thy former wrongs

Thou hast receiv’d by murder of thy son,

And lastly—not least!—how Isabel,

Once his mother and thy dearest wife,

All woe-begone for him, hath slain herself.

Behoves thee then, Hieronimo, to be reveng’d!

The plot is laid of dire revenge:

On, then, Hieronimo, pursue revenge;

For nothing wants but acting of revenge!

[Exit Hieronimo.]

SCENE IV

Enter Spanish King, Viceroy, the Duke of Castile, and their train.

KING: Now, Viceroy, shall we see the tragedy

Of Soliman, the Turkish emperor,

Perform’d—of pleasure—by your son the prince,

My nephew Don Lorenzo, and my niece.

VIC: Who? Bel-imperia?

KING: Ay, and Hieronimo, our marshal,

At whose request they deign to do’t themselves:

These be our pastimes in the court of Spain.

Here, brother, you shall be the bookkeeper:

This is the argument of that they show.

[He giveth him a book.]

Gentlemen, this play of Hieronimo, in sundry languages, was thought good to be set down in English more largely for the easier understanding to every public reader.

Enter Balthazar, Bel-imperia, and Hieronimo.

BAL: Bashaw, that Rhodes is ours, yield heav’ns the honour,

And holy Mahomet, our sacred prophet!

And be thou graced with every excellence

That Soliman can give, or thou desire.

But thy desert in conquering Rhodes is less

Than in reserving this fair Christian

Perseda, blissful lamp of excellence,

Whose eyes compel, like powerful adamant

The warlike heart of Soliman to wait.

KING: See, Viceroy, that is Balthazar, your son,

That represents the emperor Soliman:

How well he acts his amorous passion!

VIC: Ay, Bel-imperia hath taught him that.

CAST: That’s because his mind runs all on Bel-imperia.

HIER: Whatever joy earth yields, betide your majesty.

BAL: Earth yields no joy without Perseda’s love.

HIER: Let then Perseda on your grace attend.

BAL: She shall not wait on me, but I on her:

Drawn by the influence of her lights, I yield.

But let my friend, the Rhodian knight, come forth,

Erasto, dearer than my life to me,

That he may see Perseda, my belov’d.

Enter Erasto.

KING: Here comes Lorenzo: look upon the plot,

And tell me, brother, what part plays he?

BEL: Ah, my Erasto, welcome to Perseda.

LOR: Thrice happy is Erasto that thou litv’st;

Rhodes’ loss is nothing to Erasto’s joy:

Sith his Perseda lives, his life survives.

BAL: Ah, bashaw, here is love between Erasto

And fair Perseda, sovereign of my soul.

HIER: Remove Erasto, mighty Soliman,

And then Perseda will be quickly won.

BAL: Erasto is my friend; and while he lives,

Perseda never will remove her love.

HIER: Let not Erasto live to grieve great Soliman.

BAL: Dear is Erasto in our princely eye.

HIER: But if he be your rival, let him die.

BAL: Why, let him die!—so love commandeth me.

Yet grieve I that Erasto should so die.

HIER: Erasto, Soliman saluteth thee,

And lets thee wit by me his highness' will,

Which ist thou shouldst be thus employ’d.

[Stabs him.]

BEL: Ay me!

Erasto! see, Soliman, Erasto’s slain!

BAL: Yet liveth Soliman to comfort thee.

Fair queen of beauty, let not favour die,

But with a gracious eye behold his grief,

That with Perseda’s beauty is increas’d,

If by Perseda his grief be not releas’d.

BEL: Tyrant, desist soliciting vain suits;

Relentless are mine ears to thy laments,

As thy butcher is pitiless and base,

Which seiz’d on my Erasto, harmless knight.

Yet by thy power thou thinkest to command,

And to thy power Perseda doth obey:

But, were she able, thus she would revenge

Thy treacheries on thee, ignoble prince:

[Stabs him.]

And on herself she would be thus reveng’d.

[Stabs herself.]

KING: Well said!—Old marshal, this was bravely done!

HIER: But Bel-imperia plays Perseda well!

VIC: Were this in earnest, Bel-imperia,

You would be better to my son than so.

KING: But now what follows for Hieronimo?

HIER: Marry, this follows for Hieronimo:

Here break we off our sundry languages,

And thus conclude I in our vulgar tongue.

Haply you think—but bootless are your thoughts

That this is fabulously counterfeit,

And that we do as all tragedians do:

To die to-day (for fashioning our scene)

The death of Ajax or some Roman peer,

And in a minute starting up again,

Revive to please to-morrow’s audience.

No, princes; know I am Hieronimo,

The hopeless father of a hapless son,

Whose tongue is tun’d to tell his latest tale,

Not to excuse gross errors in the play.

I see, your looks urge instance of these words;

Behold the reason urging me to this:

[Shows his dead son.]

See here my show, look on this spectacle:

Here lay my hope, and here my hope hath end;

Here lay my heart, and here my heart was slain;

Here lay my treasure, here my treasure lost;

Here lay my bliss, and here my bliss bereft:

But hope, heart, treasure, joy, and bliss,

All fled, fail’d, died, yea, all decay’d with this.

From forth these wounds came breath that gave me life

They murdered me that made these fatal marks.

The cause was love, whence grew this mortal hate;

The hate: Lorenzo and young Balthazar;

The love: my son to Bel-imperia.

But night, the cov’rer of accursed crimes,

With pitchy silence hush’d these traitors’ harms,

And lent them leave, for they had sorted leisure

To take advantage in my garden-plot

Upon my son, my dear Horatio:

There merciless they butcher’d up my boy,

In black, dark night, to pale, dim, cruel death.

He shrieks: I heard (and yet, methinks, I hear)

His dismal outcry echo in the air.

With soonest speed I hasted to the noise,

Where hanging on a tree I found my son,

Through-girt with wounds, and slaughter’d as you see.

And griev’d I, think you, at this spectacle?

Speak, Portuguese, whose loss resembles mine:

If thou canst weep upon thy Balthazar,

‘Tis like I wail’d for my Horatio.

SCENE V

Enter Ghost and Revenge.

GHOST: Ay, now my hopes have end in their effects,

When blood and sorrow finish my desires:

Horatio murder’d in his fathers bower;

Vild Serberine by Pedringano slain;

False Pedringano hang’d by quaint device;

Fair Isabella by herself misdone;

Prince Balthazar by Bel-imperia stabb’d;

The Duke of Castile and his wicked son

Both done to death by old Hieronimo;

My Bel-imperia fall’n, as Dido fell,

And good Hieronimo slain by himself:

Ay, these were spectacles to please my soul!

Now will I beg at lovely Proserpine

That, by the virtue of her princely doom,

I may consort my friends in pleasing sort,

And on my foes work just and sharp revenge.

I’ll lead my friend Horatio through those fields,

Where never-dying wars are still inured;

I’ll lead fair Isabella to that train,

Where pity weeps, but never feeleth pain;

I’ll lead my Bel-imperia to those joys,

That vestal virgins and fair queens possess;

I’ll lead Hieronimo where Orpheus plays,

Adding sweet pleasure to eternal days.

But say, Revenge—for thou must help, or none

Against the rest how shall my hate be shown?

REV: This hand shall hale them down to deepest hell,

Where none but Furies, bugs and tortures dwell.

GHOST: Then, sweet Revenge, do this at my request:

Let me be judge, and doom them to unrest.

Let loose poor Tityus from the vulture’s gripe,

And let Don Cyprian supply his room;

Place Don Lorenzo on Ixion’s wheel,

And let the lover’s endless pains surcease

(Juno forgets old wrath, and grants him ease);

Hang Balthazar about Chimæra’s neck,

And let him there bewail his bloody love,

Repining at our joys that are above;

Let Serberine go roll the fatal stone,

And take from Sisyphus his endless moan;

False Pedringano, for his treachery,

Let him be dragged through boiling Acheron,

And there live, dying still in endless flames,

Blaspheming gods and all their holy names.

REV: Then haste we down to meet thy friends and foes:

To place thy friends in ease, the rest in woes;

For here though death hath end their misery,

I’ll there begin their endless tragedy.

[Exeunt.]

FINIS