Page images
PDF
EPUB

Bel. O thou goddess,

Thou divine Nature, thou thyself thou blazon'st
In these two princely boys! They are as gentle
As zephyrs, blowing below the violet,

Not wagging his fweet head; and yet as rough,
Their royal blood enchaf'd, as the rudeft wind,
That by the top doth take the mountain pine,
And make him stoop to the vale. 'Tis wonderful,
That an invifible inftinct fhould frame them
To royalty unlearn'd; honour untaught;
Civility not feen from other; valour

That wildly grows in them, but yields a crop
As if it had been fow'd! Yet ftill it's ftrange
What Cloten's being here to us portends,
Or what his death will bring us.

Re-enter Guiderius.

Guid. Where's my brother?

I have fent Cloten's clot-pole down the stream
In embaffy to his mother: his body's hoftage
For his return.

Bel. My ingenious inftrument!

[Solemn mufic

Hark, Polydore! it founds! but what occafion
Hath Cadwal now to give it motion? Hark!
Guid. Is he at home?

Bel. He went hence even now.

Guid. What does he mean? Since death of my
deareft mother

It did not speak before. All folemn things
Should anfwer folemn accidents. The matter?
Triumphs for nothing, and lamenting toys,

Is jollity for apes, and grief for boys.

Is Cadwal mad?

Enter

Enter Arviragus, with Imogen dead, bearing her in

bis arms.

Bel. Look, here he comes!

And brings the dire occafion, in his arms,
Of what we blame him for.

Arv. The bird is dead

That we have made fo much on. I had rather
Have skipt from fixteen years of age to fixty;
And turn'd my leaping time into a crutch,
Than have feen this.

Guid. Oh fweetest, fairest lilly!

My brother wears thee not the one half so well,
As when thou grew'ft thyself.

Bel. O melancholy!

Who ever yet could found thy bottom? find
The ooze, to fhew what coaft thy fluggish crare
Might eafilieft harbour in ?-Thou bleffed thing!
Jove knows, what man thou might'ft have made;
but ah

Thou dy'ft, a moft rare boy, of melancholy!-
How found you him?

Arv. Stark, as you see;

Thus fmiling, as fome fly had tickled slumber,

8 O, melancholy!

Who ever yet could found thy bottom? find

The ooze, to fhew what coaft thy fluggish crare
Might eafilieft barbour in?] The folio reads,
thy fluggish care:

which Dr. WARBURTON allows to be a plaufible reading, but fubstitutes carrack it its room; and with this Dr. JOHNSON tacitly acquiefces, and inferts it in the text. Mr. SYMPSON,

in his notes on Beaumont and Fletcher, vol. vi. page 441. has retrieved the true reading, which is,

[merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][ocr errors]

A crare, fays the author of The Revijal, is a small trading veffel, called in the Latin of the middle ages crayera.

STEEV.

Not

Not as death's dart, being laugh'd at: his right cheek
Repofing on a cushion.
Guid. Where?

Arv. O' the floor,

His arms thus leagu'd. I thought he slept; and put My clouted brogues from off my feet, whofe rudeness Answer'd my steps too loud.

Guid. Why, he but fleeps:

If he be gone, he'll make his grave a bed;
With female fairies will his tomb be haunted,
And worms will not come to thee.

Arv. With faireft flowers,

Whilst summer lafts, and I live here, Fidele,
I'll fweeten thy fad grave. Thou shalt not lack
The flower, that's like thy face, pale primrose; nor
The azur'd hair-bell, like thy veins; no, nor
The leaf of eglantine, whom, not to flander,
Out-fweeten'd not thy breath. 9 The ruddock would,
With charitable bill (oh bill, fore-fhaming
Thofe rich-left heirs, that let their fathers lie
Without a monument!) bring thee all this;

[blocks in formation]

With charitable bill, bring thee all this;

Yea, and furr'd mofs befides, when flow'rs are none,

To winter-ground thy corfe. Here again, the metaphor is ftrangely mangled. What fenfe is there in winter-grounding a corfe with mos. A corfe might indeed be faid to be wintergrounded in good thick clay. But the epithet furr'd to moss directs us plainly to another reading,

To winter-gown thy corfe:

i. e. the fummer habit fhall be a light gown of flowers, thy winter habit a good warm furr'd gown of moss. WARB.

I have no doubt but that the rejected word was Shakespeare's, fince the protection of the dead, and not their ornament, was what he meant to exprefs. To winter-ground a plant, is to protect it from the inclemency of the winter-feafon, by straw, dung, &c. laid over it. This precaution is commonly taken in refpect of tender trees or flowers, fuch as Arviragus, who loved Fidele, reprefents her to be.

The ruddock is the red-breaft, and is fo called by Chaucer and Spenfer:

"The tame ruddock, and the coward kite." STEEV.

VOL. IX.

R

Yea,

Yea, and furr'd mofs befides, when flowers are none, To winter-ground thy corfe.

Guid. Pr'ythee have done;

And do not play in wench-like words with that
Which is fo ferious. Let us bury him,
And not protract with admiration what
Is now due debt.-To the grave.
Arv. Say, where fhall's lay him?
Guid. By good Euriphile, our mother.
Arv. Be't fo:

And let us, Polydore, though now our voices
Have got the mannifh crack, fing him to the ground,
As, once, our mother; ufe like note, and words,
Save that Euriphile must be Fidele.

Guid. Cadwal,

I cannot fing: I'll weep, and word it with thee:
For notes of forrow, out of tune, are worse
Than priests and fanes that lie.

Arv. We'll speak it then.

Bel. Great griefs, I fee, medicine the lefs: for
Cloten

Is quite forgot. He was a queen's fon, boys;
And though he came our enemy, remember,
He was paid for that: tho' mean and mighty, rotting
Together, have one duft; yet 2 reverence,

(That angel of the world) doth make distinction
Of place 'twixt high and low. Our foe was princely;
And though you took his life, as being our foe,
Yet bury him as a prince.

He was paid for that:

-] HANMER reads,

He has paid for that:

rather plaufibly than rightly. Paid is for punified. So JONSON, "Twenty things more, my friend, which you know due, "For which, or pay me quickly, or I'll pay you."

2

reverence,

JOHNSON.

(That angel of the world)] Reverence, or due regard

to fubordination, is the power that keeps peace and order in

the world. JOHNSON.

2

Guid.

Guid. Pray you, fetch him hither. Therfites' body is as good as Ajax, When neither are alive.

Arv. If you'll go fetch him,

We'll fay our fong the whilft. Brother, begin.

[Exit Belarius.

Guid. Nay, Cadwal, we must lay his head to the

Eaft;

My father hath a reafon for't.

Arv. 'Tis true.

Guid. Come on then, and remove him.

Arv. So, begin.

SONG.

Guid. Fear no more the heat o' the fun,
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task haft done,

Home art come, and ta'en thy wages.
Both golden lads and girls all muft,
As chimney fweepers, come to duft.

Arv. 3 Fear no more the frown o' the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's ftroke;

Care no more to cloath and eat;

To thee the reed is as the oak:

4 The fcepter, learning, phyfic, must
All follow this, and come to duft.

3 Fear no more, &c.] This is the topic of confolation that nature dictates to all men on these occafions. The fame farewell we have over the dead body in Lucian. Τέχνον άθλιον ἔκετι

διψήσεις, ἔκετι πεινήσεις, &c. WARBURTON.

4 The Scepter, learning, &c.] The poet's fentiment feems to have been this. All human excellence is equally fubject to the stroke of death: neither the power of kings, nor the fcience of fcholars, nor the art of those whofe immediate ftudy is the prolongation of life, can protect them from the final destiny of man. JOHNSON.

[blocks in formation]
« PreviousContinue »