Notes: The scene is the "orchard" (garden), in which stands the tree from which the body of Hieronimo's son Horatio was hung by evil enemies of Hieronimo. Hieronimo was "marshal" (commander of the armed forces) of Spain. Isabella is Hieronimo's wife. Pedro is a servant. An "alley" is a garden path.
Pedro. It is a painter, sir.
Hieronimo. Bid him come in, and paint some comfort.
For surely there's none lives but painted comfort:
Let him come in. One knows not what may chance.
Enter the Painter.
Painter. God bless you, sir.
Hieronimo. Wherefore ? Why, thou scornful villain, 80
How, where, or by what means should I be bless'd ?
Isabella. What wouldst thou have, good fellow ?
Painter. Justice, madam.
Hieronimo. O ambitious beggar, wouldst thou have that
That lives not in the world ? 85
Why all the undelved mines cannot buy
An ounce of justice, 'tis a jewel so inestimable:
I tell thee,
God hath engross'd all justice in his hands,
And there is none, but what comes from him. 90
Painter. O then I see
That God must right me for my murder'd son.
Hieronimo. How, was thy son murdered ?
Painter. Ay, sir : no man did hold a son so dear.
Hieronimo. What, not as thine ? That's a lie 95
As massy as the earth : I had a son,
Whose least unvalued hair did weigh
A thousand of thy sons : and he was murder'd.
Painter. Alas, sir, I had no more but he.
Hieronimo. Nor I, nor I : but this same one of mine 100
Was worth a legion : but all is one.
Pedro, Jaques, go in a-doors, Isabella go,
And this good fellow here and I
Will range this hideous orchard up and down,
Like to two lions reaved of their young. 105
Go in a-doors, I say.
Exeunt [ISABELLA, PEDRO, JAQUES].
The Painter and he sits down.
Come, let's talk wisely now. Was thy son murdered ?
Painter. Ay, sir.
Hieronimo. So was mine. How dost take it ? Art thou not some-
times mad ? Is there no tricks that comes before thine no
eyes?
Painter. O Lord, yes sir.
Hieronimo. Art a painter ? Canst paint me a tear, or a wound, a
groan, or a sigh? canst paint me such a tree as this?
Painter. Sir, I am sure you have heard of my painting, my 115
name's Bazardo.
Hieronimo. Bazardo ! afore God, an excellent fellow ! Look you sir,
do you see, I'd have you paint me in my gallery, in your
oil colours matted, and draw me five years younger than
I am. Do you see, sir? Let five years go, [and paint me as] 120
the marshal of Spain, my wife Isabella standing by me,
with a speaking look to my son Horatio, which should
intend to this or some such like purpose : 'God bless thee,
my sweet son and my hand leaning upon his head, thus
sir, do you see? May it be done? 125
Painter. Very well, sir.
Hieronimo. Nay, I pray mark me, sir. Then sir, would I have you
paint me this tree, this very tree. Canst paint a doleful
cry?
Painter. Seemingly, sir. 130
Hieronimo. Nay, it should cry: but all is one. Well sir, paint me a
youth, run through and through with villains' swords,
hanging upon this tree. Canst thou draw a murderer ?
Painter. I'll warrant you, sir: I have the pattern of the most
notorious villains that ever lived in all Spain. 135
Hieronimo. O let them be worse, worse : stretch thine art, and let
their beards be of Judas his own colour, and let their eye-
brows jutty over : in any case observe that. Then sir, after
some violent noise, bring me forth in my shirt, and my
gown under mine arm, with my torch in my hand, and 140
my sword reared up thus : and with these words :
"What noise is this? who calls Hieronimo?"
May it be done ?
Painter. Yea, sir.
Hieronimo. Well sir, then bring me forth, bring me through alley 145
and alley, still with a distracted countenance going
along, and let my hair heave up my night-cap. Let the
clouds scowl, make the moon dark, the stars extinct, the
winds blowing, the bells tolling, the owl shrieking, the
toads croaking, the minutes jarring, and the clock strik- 150
ing twelve. And then at last, sir, starting, behold a man
hanging, and tottering and tottering, as you know the
wind will weave a man, and I with a trice to cut him down.
And looking upon him by the advantage of my torch,
find it to be my son Horatio. There you may show a pas- 1 55
sion, there you may show a passion. Draw me like old
Priam of Troy, crying, 'The house is a-fire, the house is
a-fire, as the torch over my head.' Make me curse, make
me rave, make me cry, make me mad, make me well
again, make me curse hell, invocate heaven, and in the 160
end, leave me in a trance and so forth.
Painter. And is this the end ?
Hieronimo. O no, there is no end: the end is death and madness.
As I am never better than when I am mad, then me-
thinks I am a brave fellow, then I do wonders : but reason 165
abuseth me, and there's the torment, there's the hell. At
the last, sir, bring me to one of the murderers : were he as
strong as Hector, thus would I tear and drag him up and
down.
He beats the Painter in, then comes out again with a book
in his hand.