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.&prquo;

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

&plquo;Bel.
&plquo;^{7 note}

&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.&prquo;

&plquo;Guid.
&plquo;Where?&prquo;

&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.&prquo;

&plquo;Guid.
&plquo;Why, he but sleeps;&prquo;
&wlquo;If he be gone, he'll make his grave a bed;
&wlquo;With female Fairies will his tomb be haunted,
&wlquo;And worms will not come near thee.&wrquo;

&wlquo;Arv.
&wlquo;With fairest flow'rs,
&wlquo;'Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele,
&wlquo;I'll sweeten thy sad grave. Thou shalt not lack
&wlquo;The flow'r that's like thy face, pale Primrose; nor
&wlquo;The azur'd Hare-bell, like thy veins, no, nor
&wlquo;The leaf of Eglantine; which not to slander,
&wlquo;Out-sweeten'd not thy breath. ^{8 note}

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, Paladour, 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;
&wlquo;For notes of sorrow, out of tune, are worse
&wlquo;Than Priests and Fanes that lie.&wrquo;

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,
(a) ^noteHe has paid for that: the mean and mighty, rotting
Together, have one dust; yet Reverence,
(That 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;^{9 note}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.&prquo;
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:&prquo;
The scepter, learning, physick, must
All follow this, and come to dust.

&plquo;Guid.
&plquo;Fear no more the lightning-flash.&prquo;

Arv.
  Nor th' all-dreaded thunder-stone.

&plquo;Guid.
&plquo;Fear no slander, censure rash.&prquo;

&plquo;Arv.
  &plquo;Thou hast finish'd joy and moan.&prquo;

Both.
All lovers young, all lovers must
  Consign to thee, and come to dust.

Guid.
No exorciser harm thee!

Arv.
Nor 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 Belarius, with the body of Cloten.

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

&wlquo;Bel.
&wlquo;Here's a few flow'rs, but about midnight more;

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

&plquo;Imo.
&plquo;Yes, Sir, to Milford-Haven, which is the way?—
&plquo;I thank you—by yond bush?—pray, how far thither?—
&plquo;'Ods pittikins—can it be six mile yet?—
&plquo;I've gone all night—'faith, I'll lye down and sleep.
&plquo;But, soft! no bedfellow—Oh Gods, and Goddesses! [Seeing the body.
&plquo;These flow'rs are like the pleasures of the world;
&plquo;This bloody man the care on't—I hope, I dream;
&plquo;For, sure, I thought I was a cave-keeper,
&plquo;And cook to honest creatures. But 'tis not so:
&plquo;'Twas but a bolt of nothing, shot at nothing,
&plquo;Which the brain makes of fumes: Our very eyes
&plquo;Are sometimes like our judgments, blind. Good faith,
&plquo;I tremble still with fear; but if there be
&plquo;Yet left in heav'n as small a drop of pity
&plquo;As a wren's eye, oh Gods! a part of it!
&plquo;The dream's here still; ev'n when I wake, it is
&plquo;Without me, as within me; not imagin'd, felt.&prquo;
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—
Murther in heaven?—how!—'tis gone!—Pisanio!—
All curses madded Hecuba gave the Greeks,
And mine to boot, be darted on thee! thou,

'Twas thou, conspiring with that devil Cloten,
Hast here cut off my lord. To write, and read,
Be henceforth treach'rous!—Damn'd Pisanio
Hath with his forged letters—damn'd Pisanio!—
From this the bravest vessel of the world
Struck the main-top! oh Posthumus, alas,
Where is thy head? where's That? ah me, where's That?
Pisanio might have kill'd thee at the heart,
And left thy head on. How should this be, Pisanio?—
'Tis he and Cloten. Malice and lucre in them
Have laid this woe here. Oh, 'tis pregnant, pregnant!
The drug he gave me, which, he said, was precious
And cordial to me, have I not found it
Murth'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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