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The purpose I then follow'd;—That I was he,
I am down again:
Kneel not to me;
You holp us, sir,
Read, and declare the meaning.
' — spritely shows-] Are groups of sprites, ghostly appearances.
? Muke no collection of it;] A collection is a corollary, a consequence deduced from premises.
Sooth. [Reads.] When as a lion's whelp shall, to himself unknown, without seeking find, and be embraced by a piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be lopped branches, which, being dead many years shall after revive, be jointed to the old stock, and freshly grow; then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britain be fortunate, and flourish in peace and plenty.
Thou, Leonatus, art the lion's whelp;
This hath some seeming. Sooth. The lofty cedar, royal Cymbeline, Personates thee: and thy lopp'd branches point Thy two sons forth: who, by Belarius stolen, For many years thought dead, are now reviv'd, To the majestick cedar join'd; whose issue Promises Britain peace and plenty. Cym.
Well, My peace we will begin :- And, Caius Lucius, Although the victor, we submit to Cæsar, And to the Roman empire; promising To pay our wonted tribute, from the which We were dissuaded by our wicked queen; Whom heavens, in justice, (both on her, and hers) Have laid most heavy hand.
Sooth. The fingers of the powers above do tune
The harmony of this peace. The vision
Laud we the gods;
• This play has many just sentiments, some natural dialogues, and some pleasing scenes, but they are obtained at the expence of much incongruity. To remark the folly of the fiction, the absurdity of the conduct, the confusion of the names, and manners of different times, and the impossibility of the events in any system of life, were to waste criticism upon unresisting imbecility, upon faults too evident for detection, and too gross for aggravation.
See page 95, note 7.
SUNG BY GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS OVER FIDELE,
SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD.
BY MR. WILLIAM COLLINS.
To fair Fidele's grassy tomb,
Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
And rifle all the breathing spring.
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove;
And melting virgins own their love.
No wither'd witch shall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew :
And dress thy grave with pearly dew.
The red-breast oft at evening hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.
When howling winds, and beating rain,
In tempests shake the sylvan cell;
The tender thought on thee shall dwell.
Each lonely scene shall thee restore;
For thee the tear be duly shed:
And mourn'd till pity's self be dead.