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The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander,
Out-sweeten'd not thy breath: the ruddock 8 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-ground thy corse.
Gui.

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.
Arv.

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.

Gui. Cadwal,
I cannot sing: I'll weep, and word it with thee.
Arv,

We'll speak it then.
Bel. Great griefs, I see, medicine the less : for

Cloten
Is quite forgot. He was a queen's son, boys :
And, though he came our enemy, remember,
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.

princely;
And though you took his life, as being our foe,
Yet bury him as a prince.

8 The red-breast.
9 Probably a corrupt reading, for, wither round thy corse.

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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. Aru.

'Tis true. Gui, Come on then, and remove him. Aru.

So, - begin.

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Guí. 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.,

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Gui. Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Arv. Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone ;
Gui. Fear not slander, censure' rash;
Arv. Thou hast finish'd joy and moan :
Both. All lovers

young,

alt lovers must Consign? to thee, and come to dust.

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Gui. No exorciser harm thee!
Arv. Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Gui. Ghost unlaid forbear thee !
Arv. Nothing ill come near thee!
Both. Quiet consummation have;

And renowned be thy grave!

JS.

che

Re-enter BelArius, with the Body of Cloten.
Gui. We have done our obsequies: Come, lay

him down.
Bel. Here's a few flowers, but about midnight,

in .

more:

faces:

The herbs, that have on them cold dew o’the night,
Are strewings fitt'st for graves. Upon their
You were as flowers, now wither'd: even so
These herb'lets shall, which we upon you strow.-
Come

on, away: apart, upon our knees.
The ground, that gave them first, has them again;
Their pleasures here are past, so is their pain.

[Exeunt BelARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and

ARVIRAGUS.
Imo. [Awaking.] Yes, sir, to Milford-Haven;

Which is the way?
I thank you. - By yon bush ? Pray, how far

thither?
Is't possible it can be six miles yet ?
I have gone all night:- I will lie down and sleep.
But
, soft! no bedfellow :-0, gods and goddesses !

[Seeing the Body.
These flowers are like the pleasures of the world;
This bloody man, the care on't. - I hope, I dream;
For

, so, I thought I was a cave-keeper,
And cook to honest-creatures : But 'tis not so;
Twas but a bolt 3 of nothing, shot at nothing,
Which the brain makes of fumes: Our very eyes

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3 An arrow.

Are sometimes like our judgments, blind. Good

faith,
I tremble still with fear : But if there be
Yet left in heaven as small a drop of pity
As a wren's eye, fear'd gods, a part of it!
The dream's here still : even when I wake, it is
Without me, as within me: not imagin’d, felt.
A headless man ! - The garments of Posthumus!
I know the shape of his leg: this is his hand;
His foot Mercurial; his Martial thigh ;
The brawns of Hercules : but his Jovial + face -
Murder in heaven ? - How? — 'Tis gone. — Pi-

sanio,
All curses madded Hecuba gave the Greeks,
And mine to boot, be darted on thee! Thou,
Conspir'd with that irregulous 5 devil, Cloten,
Hast here cut off

my

kord. - To write, and read, Be henceforth treacherous. O Pisanio, Pisanio, with his forged letters, hath From this most bravest vessel of the world Struck the main-top!-0, Posthumus! alas, Where is thy head? where's that? Ah me! where's

that? Pisanio might have kill'd thee at the heart, And left this head on. - How should this be? Pi.

sanio? 'Tis he, and Cloten: malice and lucre in them Have laid this woe here. 0, 'tis pregnant, preg

nant! The drug he gave me, which, he said, was precious And cordial to me, have I not found it Murd'rous to the senses? That confirms it home : This is Pisanio's deed, and Cloten's: O! Give colour to my pale cheek with thy blood, That we the horrider may seem to those Which chance to find us: O, my lord,

my

lord!

4 A face like Jove's.

5 Lawless, licentious. 6 i.e. 'Tis a ready, apposite conclusion.

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Enter Lucius, a Captain, and other Officers, and a

Soothsayer.
Cap. To them the legions garrison'd in Gallia,
After your will, have cross'd the sea : attending
You here at Milford-Haven, with your ships :
They are here in readiness.
Luc.

But what from Rome?
Cap. The senate hath stirr'd up the cónfiners,
And gentlemen of Italy; most willing spirits,
That promise noble service: and they come
Under the conduct of bold Iachimo,
Sienna's brother.
Luc.

When expect you them ?:
Cap. With the next benefit o'the wind.
Luc.

This forwardness
Makes our hopes fair. Command, our present

numbers Be muster'd ; bid the captains look to't. - Now, What have you dream’d, of late, of this war's pur

pose? Sooth. Last night the very gods show'd me a

vision:
(I fast, and pray’d, for their intelligence,) Thus:--
I saw Jove's bird, the Roman eagle, wing’d,
From the spongy south to this part of the west,
There vanish'd in the sunbeams: which portends,
(Unless my sins abuse my divination)
Success to the Roman host.
Luc.

Dream often so,
And never false. Soft, ho! what trunk is here,
Without his top? The ruin speaks, that sometime.
It was a worthy building:

How! a page!
Or dead, or sleeping on him? But dead, rather :
For nature doth abhor to make his bed
With the defunct, or sleep upon the dead.
Let's

see the boy's face.
Cap.

He is alive, my lord.

sir,

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VOL. IX

I

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