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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.

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, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.

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!

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,

more:

The herbs, that have on them cold dew o'the night,

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Consign to thee,] Perhaps: To consign to thee, is to seal the same contract with thee, i. e. add their names to thine upon the register of death.

No exorciser harm thee!] Shakspeare invariably uses the word exorciser to express a person who can raise spirits, not one who lays them.

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thy grave!] For the obsequies of Fidele, a song was written by my unhappy friend, Mr. William Collins of Chichester, a man of uncommon learning and abilities. I shall give it a place at the end, in honour of his memory. JOHNSON.

Are strewings fitt'st for graves.-Upon their faces:-
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 AR

VIRAGUS.

Imo. [Awaking.] Yes, sir, to Milford-Haven;
Which is the way?

I thank you. By yon bush?-Pray, how far thither? 'Ods pittikins!-can it be six miles yet?—

I have gone all night:-'Faith, I'll lie down and sleep. But, soft! no bedfellow:-O, 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 of nothing, shot at nothing,
Which the brain makes of fumes: Our very eyes
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 ine, as within me; not imagin'd, felt.
A headless man!-The garments of Posthúmus!
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.-Pisanio,

8 'Ods pittikins!] This diminutive adjuration is derived from God's my pity, which likewise occurs in Cymbeline.

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his Jovial face-] Jovial face signifies in this place, such a face as belongs to Jove. It is frequently used in the same sense by other old dramatick writers.

All curses madded Hecuba gave the Greeks,
And mine to boot, be darted on thee! Thou,
Conspir'd with that irregulous devil,' Cloten,
Hast here cut off my lord.-To write, and read,
Be henceforth treacherous!-Damn'd Pisanio
Hath with his forged letters,-damn'd Pisanio-
From this most bravest vessel of the world
Struck the main-top!2-O, 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? Pisanio?
'Tis he, and Cloten: malice and lucre in them
Have laid this woe here. O, 'tis pregnant, pregnant!
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!

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,

1that irregulous devil,] Irregulous (if there be such a word) must mean lawless, licentious, out of rule, jura negans sibi

nata.

2 the main-top!] i. e. the top of the mainmast.

3

clusion.

'tis pregnant, pregnant!] i. e. 'tis a ready, apposite con

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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 num

bers

Be muster'd; bid the captains look to't.-Now, sir, 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.

Dream often so,

Luc.
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.

Luc. He'll then instruct us of this body.-Young

one,

Inform us of thy fortunes; for, it seems,

They crave to be demanded: Who is this,
Thou mak'st thy bloody pillow? Or who was he,
That, otherwise than noble nature did,ina si urobia

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↑ Sienna's brother:] i. e. (as I suppose Shakspeare to have meant) brother to the Prince of Siunna: but, unluckily, Sienna was a republick. STEEVANS. 37

Hath alter'd that good picture? What's thy interest In this sad wreck? How came it? Who is it? What art thou?

Imo.

I am nothing: or if not, Nothing to be were better. This was my master, A very valiant Briton, and a good,

That here by mountaineers lies slain:-Alas!
There are no more such masters: I may wander
From east to occident, cry out for service,
Try many, all good, serve truly, never
Find such another master.

Luc.

'Lack, good youth!

Thou mov'st no less with thy complaining, than Thy master in bleeding: Say his name, good friend. Imo. Richard du Champ. If I do lie, and do No harm by it, though the gods hear, I hope

They'll pardon it. Say you, sir?

Luc.

Imo.

[Aside.

Thy name?

Fidele.

Luc. Thou dost approve thyself the very same: Thy name well fits thy faith; thy faith, thy name. Wilt take thy chance with me? I will not say, Thou shalt be so well master'd; but, be sure, No less belov'd. The Roman emperor's letters, Sent by a consul to me, should not sooner Than thine own worth prefer thee: Go with me. Imo. I'll follow, sir. But first, an't please the gods, I'll hide my master from the flies, as deep As these poor pickaxes' can dig: and when With wild wood-leaves and weeds I have strew'd his grave,

And on it said a century of prayers,

Such as I can, twice o'er, I'll weep, and sigh;
And, leaving so his service, follow you,

these poor pickaxes-] Meaning her fingers.

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