Guid.
We've done our obsequies: come, lay him down.

Bel.
Here's a few flow'rs but about midnight more;
The herbs, that have on them cold dew o' th' night,
Are strewings fitt'st for Graves.—Upon their faces—
You were as flow'rs, now wither'd; even so
These herbelets shall, which we upon you strow.
Come on, away. Apart upon our knees.
—The ground, that gave them first, has them again:
Their pleasure here is past, so is their pain. [Exeunt. Imogen, awaking.

Imo.
Yes, Sir, to Milford-Haven, which is the way?—
I thank you—by yond bush?—pray, how far thither?—
'Ods pittikins—can it be six mile yet?—
I've gone all night—'faith, I'll lie down and sleep.
But, soft! no bedfellow,—Oh Gods, and Goddesses! [Seeing the body.
These flow'rs 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 heav'n as small a drop of pity
As a wren's eye, fear'd Gods! a part of it!
The dream's here still; ev'n when I wake, it is
Without me, as within me; not imagin'd, felt.
A headless man!—the garments of Posthumus?
I know the shape of's 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!—
All curses madded Hecuba gave the Greeks,
And mine to boot, be darted on thee! thou,
^{9 note}

Murd'rous to th' senses? that confirms it home:
This is Pisanio's deed, and Cloten's. Oh!
Give colour to my pale cheek with thy blood,
That we the horrider may seem to those
Which chance to find us. Oh, my Lord! my Lord!

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