Chapter III: CIT. And here is my lease

They give him papers.

HIERO. But wherefore stands yon silly man so mute,
With mournful eyes and hands to heav'n uprear'd?
Come hither, father; let me know thy cause.

SENEX, [DON BAZULTO]. O worthy sir, my cause but slightly known
May move the hearts of warlike Myrmidons,
And melt the Corsic rocks with ruthful tears!

HIERO. Say, father; tell me what's thy suit!

BAZULTO. No, sir, could my woes
Give way unto my most distressful words,
Then should I not in paper, as you see,
With ink bewray what blood began in me.

HIERO. What's here? "The Humble Supplication
Of Don Bazulto for his Murder'd Son."

BAZULTO. Aye, sir.

HIERO. No, sir, it was my murder'd son!
Oh, my son, my son! oh, my son Horatio!
But mine or thine, Bazulto, be content;
Here, take my handkerchief and wipe thine eyes,
Whiles wretched I in thy mishaps may see
The lively portrait of my dying self.

He draweth out a bloody napkin.

O, no; not this! Horatio, this was thine!
And when I dy'd it in thy dearest blood,
This was a token twixt thy soul and me
That of thy death revenged I should be.
But here: take this, and this! what? my purse?
Aye, this and that and all of them are thine;
For all as one are our extremities.

I CIT. Oh, see the kindness of Hieronimo!