| | The more unsquar'd, unbevell'd, he appears, | |
| | Reckons his parents among the rank of fools, | |
| | Strikes care upon their heads with his mad riots; | |
| | Makes them look old, before they meet with age. | |
| | This is a son!--And what a loss were this, | |
| | Consider'd truly?--O, but my Horatio | |
| | Grew out of reach of these insatiate humours: | |
| | He lov'd his loving parents; | 30 |
| | He was my comfort, and his mother's joy, | |
| | The very arm that did hold up our house: | |
| | Our hopes were storèd up in him, | |
| | None but a damnèd murderer could hate him. | |
| | He had not seen the back of nineteen year, | |
| | When his strong arm unhors'd | |
| | The proud Prince Balthazar, and his great mind, | |
| | Too full of honour, took him to his mercy-- | |
| | That valiant, but ignoble Portingal! | |
| | Well, heaven is heaven still! | |
| | And there is Nemesis, and Furies, | 40 |
| | And things call'd whips, | |
| | And they sometimes do meet with murderers: | |
| | They do not always 'scape, that is some comfort. | |
| | Ay, ay, ay; and then time steals on, | |
| | And steals, and steals, till violence leaps forth | |
| | Like thunder wrappèd in a ball of fire, | |
| | And so doth bring confusion to them all.] | |
| | Good leave have you: nay, I pray you go, | |
| | For I'll leave you, if you can leave me so. | 50 |