Bel.
Look, here he comes!
And brings the dire occasion in his arms,
Of what we blame him for.

&plquo;Arv.
&plquo;The bird is dead
&plquo;That we have made so much on! I had rather
&plquo;Have skipt from sixteen years of age, to sixty;
&plquo;And turn'd my leaping time into a crutch,
&plquo;Than have seen this.

&plquo;Guid.
&plquo;Oh sweetest, fairest lilly!
&plquo;My brother wears thee not one half so well,
&plquo;As when thou grew'st thy self.

&plquo;Bel.
&plquo;Oh melancholy!
&plquo;Who ever yet could sound thy bottom? find
&plquo;The ooze, to shew what coast thy sluggish care
&plquo;Might eas'liest harbour in?—thou blessed thing!
&plquo;Jove knows what man thou might'st have made? but ah!
&plquo;Thou dy'dst, a most rare boy, of melancholy!
&plquo;How found you him?

&plquo;Arv.
&plquo;Stark, as you see:
&plquo;Thus smiling, as some fly had tickled slumber,
&plquo;Not as death's dart being laugh'd at: his right cheek
&plquo;Reposing on a cushion.

&plquo;Guid.
&plquo;Where?

&plquo;Arv.
&plquo;O'th' floor:
&plquo;His arms thus leagu'd; I thought he slept, and put
&plquo;My clouted brogues from off my feet, whose rudeness
&plquo;Answer'd my steps too loud.

&plquo;Guid.
&plquo;Why, he but sleeps;

If he be gone he'll make his grave a bed,
With female Fairies will his tomb he haunted,
And worms will not come near thee.

Arv.
With fairest flow'rs,
(Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele,)
I'll sweeten thy sad grave. Thou shalt not lack
The flow'r that's like thy face, pale Primrose, nor
The azur'd Hare-bell, like thy veins; no nor
The leaf of Eglantine, which not to slander,
Out-sweetn'd not thy breath. The raddock would
With charitable bill (oh bill sore shaming
Those rich-left heirs, that let their fathers lye
Without a monument) bring thee all this,
Yea, and furr'd moss besides. When flow'rs are none
To winter-ground thy coarse—

Guid.
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 th' grave.

Arv.
Say, where shall's lay him?

Guid.
By good Euriphile, our mother.

Arv.
Be't so:
And let us, Polidore, though now our voices
Have got the mannish crack, sing him to th' ground
As once our mother: use like note, and words,
Save that Euriphile must be Fidele.

Guid.
Cadwall,
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 med'cine the less. For Cloten

Is quite forgot. He was a queen's son, boys,
And though he came our enemy, remember
Was paid for that: the mean and mighty rotting
Together have one dust; yet reverence,
(The angel of the world,) doth make distinction
Of place 'twixt high and low. Our foe was princely,
And though you took his life, as being our foe,
Yet bury him, as a prince.

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

Arv.
If you'll go fetch him,
We'll say our song the whilst: brother begin.

Guid.
Nay, Cadwall, we must lay his head to th' east;
My father hath a reason for't.

Arv.
'Tis true.

Guid.
Come on then, and remove him.

Arv.
So, begin.
SONG. &plquo;Guid.
&plquo;Fear no more the heat o'th' sun,
  &plquo;Nor the furious winter's rages;
&plquo;Thou thy worldly task hast done,
  &plquo;Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages.
Golden lads and girls all must
As chimney sweepers, come to dust. &plquo;Arv.
&plquo;Fear no more the frown o'th' great,
  &plquo;Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
&plquo;Care no more to cloath and eat;
  &plquo;To thee the reed is as the oak:
The scepter, learning, physick, must
All follow this, and come to dust.

&plquo;Guid.
&plquo;Fear no more the lightning-flash. &plquo;Arv.
&plquo;Nor th' all dreaded thunder-stone. &plquo;Guid.
&plquo;Fear no slander, censure rash. &plquo;Arv.
&plquo;Thou hast finish'd joy and moan. Both.
All lovers young, all lovers must
  Consign to thee, and come to dust. Guid.
No exorciser harm thee! Arv.
And no witchcraft charm thee! Guid.
Ghost unlaid forbear thee! Arv.
Nothing ill come near thee! Both.
Quiet consummation have,
And renowned be thy grave! Enter Bellarius with the body of Cloten.

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.

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