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From one bad thing to worse; not frenzy, not
Absolute madness could so far have rav'd,
To bring him here alone: Although, perhaps,
It may be heard at court, that such as we

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,
My brother hath done well.

Bel. I had no mind

To hunt this day: the boy Fidele's sickness
Did make my way long forth.

Gui. With his own sword,

Which he did wave against my throat, I have ta’en
His head from him: I'll throw it into the creek
Behind our rock; and let it to the sea,

And tell the fishes, he's the queen's son, Cloten :
That's all I reck.


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
Where there's no profit. I pr'ythee to our rock;
You and Fidele play the cooks: I'll stay

Till hasty Polydore return, and bring him
To dinner presently.

Arv. Poor sick Fidele !

I'll willingly to him: To gain his colour,
I'd let a parish of such Clotens blood,
And praise myself for charity.

Bel. O thou goddess,


Thou divine Nature, how thyself thou blazon'st
In these two princely boys! They are as gentle
As zephyrs, blowing below the violet,

Not wagging his sweet head: and yet as rough,
Their royal blood enchaf'd, as the rud'st wind,
That by the top doth take the mountain pine,
And make him stoop to the vale. 'Tis wonderful,
That an invisible instinct should frame them
To royalty unlearned; honour untaught;
Civility not seen from other; valour,
That wildly grows in them, but yields a crop
As if it had been sow'd! Yet still it's strange,
What Cloten's being here to us portends;
Or what his death will bring us.

Gui. Where's my brother?

I have sent Cloten's clotpole down the stream,


In embassy to his mother; his body's hostage
For his return.

[Solemn music.

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

It did not speak before. All solemn things
Should answer solenın accidents. The matter?
Triumphs for nothing, and lamenting toys,
Is jollity for apes, and grief for boys.

Is Cadwal mad?

my dear'st

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
Have skipped from sixteen years of age to sixty,
To have turned my leaping time into a crutch,
Than have seen this.

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 !—
How found you him?

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. Where?

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;
With female fairies will his tomb be haunted,
And worms will not come to thee.

Arv. With fairest flowers,

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-sweetened 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.
Aro. Say, where shall's lay him?
Gui. By good Euriphile, our mother.

Aro. Be't so:

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:
For notes of sorrow, out of tune, are worse

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

Gui. Pray you, fetch him hither.
Thersites' body is as good as Ajax,
When neither are alive.

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.

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