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I fear, 'twill be reveng'd: 'Would, Polydore, thou had'st not done't! though
Becomes thee well enough.
'Would I had done't,
So the revenge alone pursued me!--Polydore,
I love thee brotherly; but envy much,
Thou hast robb'd me of this deed : I would, revenges,
That possible strength might meet, would seek us
And put us to our answer.
Well, 'tis done :
We'll hunt no more to-day, nor seek for danger
Where there's no profit. I pr’ythee, to our rock;
You and Fidele play the cooks : I'll stay
Till hasty Polydore return, and bring him
To dinner presently.
Poor sick Fidele !
I'll willingly to him: To gain' his colour,
I'd let a parish of such Clotens blood,
And praise myself for charity.
O thou goddess,
Thou divine Nature, how thyself thou blazon'st
In these two princely boys! They are as gentle
As zephyrs, blowing below the violet,
Not wagging his sweet head : and yet as rough,
Their royal blood enchaf d, as the rud'st wind,
That by the top doth take the mountain pine,
And make him stoop to the vale. 'Tis wonderful,
That an invisible instinct should frame them
To royalty unlearn'd; honour untaught;
9 Regain, restore.
Civility not seen from other ; valour,
That wildly grows in them, but yields a crop
As if it had been sow'd! Yet still it's strange
What Cloten's being here to us portends ;
Or what his death will bring us.
Re-enter GUIDERIUS. Gui.
Where's my brother? I have sent Cloten's clotpoll down the stream, In embassy to his mother; his body's hostage For his return.
[Solemn Musick. Bel.
My ingenious instrument !
Hark, Polydore, it sounds ! But what occasion
Hath Cadwal now to give it motion! Hark!
Gui. Is he at home ?,
He went hence even now. Gui. What does he mean? since death of my
It did not speak before. “All solemn things
Should answer solemn accidents. The matter
Triumphs for nothing, and lamenting toys,'
Is jollity for apes, and grief for boys,
Is Cadwal mad ?
Re-enter ARVIRAG US, bearing IMOGEN as dead, in
his Arms. Bel.
Look, here he comes,
And brings the dire occasion in his arms,
Of what we blame him for !
The bird is dead,
That we have made so much on. I had rather
Have skipp'd from sixteen years of age to sixty,
To have turn'd my leaping time into a crutch,
Than have seen this.
O sweetest, fairest lily!
My brother wears thee not the one half so well,
As when thou grew'st thyself.
O, melancholy !
Who ever yet could sound thy bottom ? find
The ooze, to show what coast thy sluggish crare ?
Might easiliest harbour in?- Thou blessed thing!
Jove knows what man thou might'st have made;
Thou diedst, a most rare boy, of melancholy !
How found you him?
Stark, as you see :
Thus smiling, as some fly had tickled slumber,
Not as death's dart, being laugh'd at: his right cheek
Reposing on a cushion.
His arms thus leagu'd: I thought, he slept; and put
My clouted brogues 4 from off my feet, whose rudeness
Answer'd my steps too loud,
Why, he byt sleeps :
If he be gone, he'll make his grave a bed ;
With female fairies will his tomb bę haunted,
And worms will not come to thee.
With fairest flowers,
Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele,
I'U sweeten thy sad grave : Thou shalt not lack
The flower, that's like thy face, pale primrose; nor
The azur'd hare-bell, like thy veins ; no, nor
The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander,
Out-sweeten'd not thy breath: the ruddocks would,
With charitable bill (O bill, sore-shaming
Those rich-left heirs, that let their fathers lie
Without a monument !) bring thee all this;
Yea, and furr'd moss besides, when flowers are none,
To winter-groundó thy corsę.
Pr'ythee, have done;
And do not play in wench-like words with that
Which is so serious. Let us bury him,
And not protract with admiration what
Is now due debt.—To the grave.
Say, where shall's lay him? Gui, By good Euriphile, our mother.
And let us, Polydore, though now our voices
Have got the mannish crack, sing him to the ground,
As once our mother ; use like note, and words,
Save that Euriphile must be Fidele.
I cannot sing : I'll weep, and word it with thee:
For notes of sorrow, out of tune, are worse
Than priests and fanes that lie.
We'll speak it then. Bel. Great griefs, I see, medicine the less : for
Is quite forgot. He was a queen's son, boys :
And, though he came our enemy, remember,
$ The red-breast. • Probably a corrupt reading, for, wither round thy corse.
He was paid for that: Though mean and mighty,
rotting Together, have one dust; yet reverence, (That angel of the world,) doth make distinction Of place 'tween high and low. Our foe was princely; And though you took his life, as being our foe, Yet bury him as a prince. Gui.
Pray you, fetch him hither. Thersites' body is as good as Ajax, When neither are alive. Aru.
If you'll go fetch him. We'll say our song the whilst.--Brother, begin.
[Erit BELARIUS. Gui. Nay, Cadwal, we must lay his head to the east; My father hath a reason for't. Arv.
"Tis true. Gui. Come on then, and remove him. Arv.
Gui. Fear no more the heat o'the sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages ;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages :
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Arv. Fear no more the frown o'the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke ;
Care no more to clothe, and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak :
The sceptre, learning, physick, must
All follow this, and come to dust.