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From one bad thing to worse; not frenzy, not
Cave here, hunt here, are outlaws, and in time May make some stronger head: the which he hearing, (As it is like him,) might break out, and swear
He'd fetch us in ; yet is't not probable
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.
Aro. Let ordinance
Come as the gods foresay it: howsoe'er,
Bel. I had no mind
To hunt this day: the boy Fidele's sickness
Gui. With his own sword,
Which he did wave against my throat, I have ta’en
And tell the fishes, he's the queen's son, Cloten :
Bell. I fear, 'twill be reveng'd:
'Would, Polydore, thou had'st not done't! though va
Becomes thee well enough.
Aro. '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.
Bel. Well, 'tis done:
We'll hunt no more to-day, nor seek for danger
Till hasty Polydore return, and bring him
Arv. Poor sick Fidele !
I'll willingly to him: To gain his colour,
Bel. O thou goddess,
Thou divine Nature, how thyself thou blazon'st
Not wagging his sweet head: and yet as rough,
Gui. Where's my brother?
I have sent Cloten's clotpole down the stream,
In embassy to his mother; his body's hostage
Bel. My ingenious instrument!
Bel. He went hence even now.
Gui. What does he mean? since death of
It did not speak before. All solemn things
Is Cadwal mad?
Re-enter ARVIRAGUS, 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!
Aro. The bird is dead,
That we have made so much on. I had rather
Gui. O sweetest, fairest lily!
My brother wears thee not the one half so well,
Bel. O, melancholy!
Who ever yet could sound thy bottom? find
Jove knows what man thou might'st have made; but I,
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.
Arv. O'the floor;
His arms thus leagued: I thought, he slept; and put My clouted brogues from off my feet, whose rudeness Answer'd my steps too loud.
Gui. Why, he but sleeps:
If he be gone, he'll make his grave a bed;
Arv. With fairest flowers,
Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele,
Those rich-left heirs, that let their fathers lie
To winter-ground thy corse.
Gui. Pr'ythee, have done;
And do not play in wench-like words with that
And not protract with admiration what
Is now due debt.-To the grave.
Aro. Be't so:
And let us, Polydore, though now our voices
Have got the mannish crack, sing him to the ground,
I cannot sing: I'll weep, and word it with thee:
Than priests and fanes that lie.
Aro. 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, rot
Together, have one dust; yet reverence,
(That angel of the world,) doth make distinction
Of place 'tween high and low. Our foe was princely;
Gui. Pray you, fetch him hither.
Aro. If you'll go fetch him,
We'll say our song the whilst.-Brother, begin.
Gui. Nay, Cadwal, we must lay his head to the east ; My father hath a reason for❜t.
Aro. 'Tis true.