Chapter III: CIT. And heere is my lease

They giue him papers.

HIERO. But wherefore stands you silly man so mute,
With mournfall eyes and hands to heauen vprearde?
Come hether, father; let me know thy cause.

SENEX, [DON BAZULTO]. O worthy sir, my cause but slightly knowne
May mooue the harts of warlike Myrmydons,
And melt the Corsicke rockes with ruthfull teares!

HIERO. Say, father; tell me whats thy sute!

[BAZULTO]. No, sir, could my woes
Giue way vnto my most distresfull words,
Then should I not in paper, as you see,
With incke bewray what blood began in me.

HIERO. Whats heere? "The Humble Supplication
Of Don Bazulto for his Murdered Sonne."

[BAZULTO]. I, sir.

HIERO. No, sir, it was my murdred sonne!
Oh, my sonne, my sonne! oh, my sonne Horatio!
But mine or thine, Bazulto, be content;
Heere, take my hand-kercher and wipe thine eies,
Whiles wretched I in thy mishaps may see
The liuely portraict of my dying selfe.

He draweth out a bloudie napkin.

O, no; not this! Horatio, this was thine!
And when I dyde it in thy deerest blood,
This was a token twixt thy soule and me
That of thy death reuenged I should be.
But heere: take this, and this! what? my purse?
I, this and that and all of them are thine;
For all as one are our extremeties.

I CIT. Oh, see the kindenes of Hieronimo!