The Spanish Tragedy, Containing the lamentable Murders of Horatio and Bel-imperia: With the pitiful Death of old Hieronimo.  
To the tune of Queen Dido.  


Alas it is my son Horatio.  
Murder, help Hieronimo  
Stop þer mouth   

YOu that have lost you former joys,  
And now in woe your lives do lead:  
Feeding on nought but dire annoys,  
Thinking your griefs all griefs exceed.  
Assure yourselves it is not so:  
Lo here a sight of greater woe.   

Hapless Hieromino was my name,  
On whom fond fortune smtied long:  
But now her flattering smiles & blame,  
Her flattering smiles hath done me wrong.  
Would I had died in tender years:  
Then had not been this cause of tears.   

I Martial was in prime of years,  
And won great honour in the field:  
Until that age with silvered hairs,  
My aged head had endeavoured  
Then left I war and stayed at home:  
And gave my honour to my son.   

Horatio my sweet only child,  
Prickt-foorth by fame's aspiring wings:  
Did so behave him in the field,  
That he Prince Baltazer Captive brings.  
And with great honour did present:  
Him to the King Incontinent.   

The Duke of Castyles Daughter then.  
Desired Horatio to relate:  
The death of her beloved friend,  
Her love Andrea's woeful fate.  
But when she knew who had him slain:  
She vowed she would revenge the same.   

Then more to vex Prince Baltazer,  
Because be slew her chiefest friend:  
She chose my son for her chief flower,  
Thereby meaning to work revenge.  
But mark what then did strait befall:  
To turn my sweet to bitter gall.   

Lorenzo then to find the cause,  
Why coat his sister was unkind:  
At last he found within a pause,  
How he might sound her secret mind.  
Which or to bring well to effect;  
To fetch her man he doth direct.   

Who being come into his sight,  
H● threatneth for to rid his life:  
Except strait ways he should recite,  
His sister's love, the cause of strife.  
Compelled therefore to unfold his mind:  
Said with Horatio she's combined.   

The Villain then for hope of gain,  
Did strait convey them to the place:  
Where these too lovers did remain,  
joying in sight of others face.  
And to their foes they did impart:  
The place where they should joy their heart.   

Prince Baltazer with his compeers,  
Enters my bower all in the night,  
And there my son slain they upreare,  
The more to work my greater spite.  
But as I lay and took repose▪  
A voice I hard, whereat I rose.   

And finding then his senseless form  
The murderers I sought to find,  
But missing them I stood forlorn,  
As one amazed in his mind.  
And rend and pulled my silvered hair,  
And cursed and banned each thing was there.   

And that I would revenge the same,  
I dipped a napkin in his blood:  
Swearing to work their woeful bane,  
That so had spoiled my chiefest good.  
And that I would not it forget:  
It always at my heart I kept.    

The second part  
To the same tune.  

THen Isabel my dear wife,  
Finding her son bereaved of breath,  
And loving him dearer than life  
Her own hand strait doth work her death.  
And now their deaths doth meet in one:  
My griefs are come, my joys are gone.   

Then frantically I ran about,  
Filling the air with mournful groans,  
Because I had not yet found out  
The murderers to ease my moans.  
I rend and tore each thing I got,  
And said, and did, I knew not what.   

Thus as I passed the streets, hard by  
The Duke of Castile's house as then  
A Letter there I did espy,  
Which showed Horatio's woeful end.  
Which Bel-imperia forth had fling.  
From prison where they kept her strong.   

Then to the Court forthwith I went,  
And of the King did justice crave,  
But by Lorenzo's bad intent,  
I hindered was, which made me rave.  
Then vexed more I stamped and frowned,  
And with my poniard ripped the ground.   

But false Lorenzo put me out,  
And told the King then by and by,  
That frantically I ran about,  
And of my son did always cry,  
And said 'ttwere good I should resign:  
My Martialship which grieved my mind.   

The Duke of Castyle hearing then,  
How I did grudge still at his son,  
Did send for me to make us friends:  
To stay the rumour then begun.  
Whereto I strait way gave consent:  
Although in heart I never meant.   

Sweet Bel-imperia comes to me,  
Thinking my son I had forgot,  
To see me with his foes agree,  
The which I never meant God wots:  
But when we knew each others mind,  
To work revenge a mean I find.   

Then Bloody Baltazar enters in  
Entreating me to show some sport,  
Unto his Father and the King:  
That to his nuptial did resort.  
Which gladly I prepared to show.  
Because I knew twouled work their woe.   

And from the Chronicles of Spain,  
I did record Erastus' life,  
And how the Turk had him so slain:  
And strait revenge wrought by his wife.  
Then for to act this Tragedy:  
I gave their parts Immediately.   

Sweet Bel-imperia Baltazar kills,  
Because he slew her dearest friend,  
And I Lorenzo's blood did spill,  
And eke his soul to hell did send.  
Then died my foes by dint of knife,  
But Bel-imperia ends her life.   

Then for to specific my wrongs,  
With weeping eyes and mournful heart,  
I showed my son with bloody wounds,  
And eke the murderers did impart.  
And said my son was as dear to me:  
as thine, or thine, though Kings you be.   

But when they did behold this thing.  
How I had slain their only sons:  
The Duke, the Viceroy, and the King,  
Upon me all they strait did run.  
To torture me they do prepare,  
Unless I should it strait declare.   

But that I would not tell it then,  
Even with my tooth I bitten my tongue,  
And in despite did give it them,  
That me with torments sought to wrong:  
Thus when in age I sought to rest,  
Nothing but sorrows me oppressed.   

They knowing well that I could write,  
Unto my hand a pen did reach,  
Meaning thereby I should recite,  
The authors of this bloody f●●ch.  
Then feigned I my pen was naught  
And by strange signs a knife I sought.   

But when to me they gave the knife.  
I killed the Dake then standing by,  
And eke myself bereaved of life,  
For I to see my son did hie.  
The Kings that scorned my griefs before,  
With nought can they their joys restore;   

Here have you heard my Tragic tale.  
Which on Horatio's death depends,  
Whose death I could anew bewail:  
But that in it the murderer's ends,  
For murder god will bring to light:  
Though long it be his from man's sight.     

Printed at London for H. Gosson▪  
FINIS.