Which then he wore; the snatches in his voice, And burst of speaking, were as his: I am absolute, 'Twas very Cloten. Arv. In this place we left them: Bel. Re-enter Guiderius, with Cloten's head. Gui. This Cloten was a fool; an empty purse, There was no money in't: Not Hercules Could have knock'd out his brains, for he had none: Yet I not doing this, the fool had borne My head as I do his. Bel. What hast thou done? Gui. I am perfect*, what: cut off one Cloten's head, Son to the queen, after his own report; Who call'd me traitor, mountaineer; and swore, With his own single hand he'd take us in †, Displace our heads, where (thank the gods!) they grow, And set them on Lud's town. Bel. We are all undone. Gui. Why, worthy father, what have we to lose, But, that he swore to take, our lives? The law Protects not us: Then why should we be tender, To let an arrogant piece of flesh threat us; Play judge, and executioner, all himself; Fort we do fear the law? What company Discover you abroad? Bel. No single soul Can we set eye on, but, in all safe reason, He must have some attendants. Though his humour Was nothing but mutation §; ay, and that * I am well-informed what. For, because. VOL. IX. + Conquer, subdue. H From one bad thing to worse; not frenzy, not (As it is like him,) might break out, and swear To come alone, either he so undertaking, Or they so suffering: then on good ground we fear, If we do fear this body hath a tail More perilous than the head. Arv. Come as the gods foresay it: Let ordinance howsoe'er, I had no mind Bel. Gui. Bel. [Exit. I fear, 'twill be reveng'd: 'Would, Polydore, thou had'st not done't! though valour Becomes thee well enough. 'Would I had done't, Arv. Thou hast robb'd me of this deed: I would, re We'll hunt no more to-day, nor seek for danger Did make my walk tedious. + Care. Where there's no profit. I pr'ythee, to our rock ; Till hasty Polydore return, and bring him Arv. Poor sick Fidele ! I'll willingly to him: To gain* his colour, [Exit. Bel. Not wagging his sweet head: and yet as rough, That wildly grows in them, but yields a crop Gui. Re-enter Guiderius. 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? Bel. He went hence even now. Gui. What does he mean? since death of my dear'st mother It did not speak before. All solemn things Is jollity for apes, and grief for boys, Is Cadwal mad? Re-enter Arviragus, bearing Imogen as dead in his Bel. arms. Look, here he comes, And brings the dire occasion in his arms, Arv. Gui. O sweetest, fairest lily! My brother wears thee not the one half so well, As when thou grew'st thyself. Bel. 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; but I, Thou diedst, a most rare boy, of melancholy !— Arv. 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. Gui. Arv. Where? O'the floor; His arms thus leagu'd: I thought, he slept; and put My clouted brogues from rudeness Answer'd my steps too loud. off my feet, whose Why, he but sleeps: Gui. * A slow-sailing, unwieldy vessel. + Stiff. Shoes plated with iron. With fairest flowers, Arv. Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, I'll 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 ruddock* 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. Be't so: And let us, polydore, though now our voices Gui. Cadwal, 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. 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: Together, have one dust; yet reverence (That angel of the world) doth make distinction The red-breast. + Probably a corrupt reading, for, wither round thy corse. Punished. |