Imogen awakes.
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 mile yet?—
I have gone all night—'faith, I'll lye down and sleep.
But soft! no bedfellow—Oh gods, and goddesses! [Seeing the Body.
The flow'rs are like the pleasures of the world:
This bloody man the care on't. I hope I dream;
For sure I thought I was a cave-keeper,
And cook to honest creatures.
I tremble still with fear; but if there be
Yet left in heav'n as small a drop of pity,
As a wren's eye; oh, gods! a part of it!
The dream's here still; even when I wake, it is
Without me, as within me; not imagin'd, felt.
A headless man!—The garment of my Posthumus!
I know them well, this is his hand—
Murdered—Pisanio!—
'Twas thou conspiring, with that devil Cloten,
Hast here cut off my lord. Pisanio!—
How should this be, Pisanio!—'Tis he!
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 deed.
Oh, my lord! my lord!* ^note [Lies down upon the Body. Enter Lucius, and Captains.

Luc.
But what from Rome?

Cap.
The senate hath stirr'd up the confiners,
And gentlemen of Italy, most willing spirits,

That promise noble service: and they come
Under the conduct of bold Iachimo,
Syenna's brother.

Luc.
When expect you them?

Cap.
With the next benefit o' th' wind.

Luc.
This forwardness
Makes our hopes fair. Soft, ho, what trunk is here,
Without his top? The ruin speaks, that, some time,
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's 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 blood pillow? 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!

Luc.
'Lack, good youth!
Thou mov'st no less with thy complaining, than
Thy master in bleeding. Say thy name, good friend.

Imo.
Fidele, sir.

Luc.
Thy name well fits thy faith;
Wilt take thy chance with me? I will not say,
Thou shalt be so well master'd, but be sure
No less belov'd. Go with me.

Imo.
I'll follow, sir: but first, an't please the gods,
I'll hide my master from the fowls, as deep
As these poor pickaxes can dig; and when
With wild wood-leaves, and weeds, I ha' 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;
So please you entertain me.

Luc.
Ay, good youth,

And rather father thee, than master thee; my friends,
The boy hath taught us manly duties; let us
Find out the prettiest daizied-plot we can,
And make him, with our pikes and partizans,
A grave; boy, he is preferr'd
By thee to us, and he shall be interr'd,
As soldiers can. Be chearful, wipe thine eyes,
Some falls are means the happier to arise.* ^note
Bring him along. [Exeunt.† ^note End of the Fourth Act.

Previous section