Cap.
To them, the legions garrison'd in Gallia,
After your will, have cross'd the sea, attending
You here at Milford-Haven, with your Ships:
They are in readiness.

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. Command, our present numbers
Be muster'd; bid the Captains look to't. Now, Sir,
What have you dream'd, of late, of this war's purpose?

Sooth.
^{9 note}

Luc.
Dream often so,
And never false!—Soft, ho, what Trunk is here
Without his top? the ruin speaks, that sometime
It was a worthy building. How! a page!—
Or dead, or sleeping on him? but dead, rather:
For Nature doth abhor to make his couch
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 pillow? ^{1 note}

who was he,
That, otherwise than noble Nature did,
Hath alter'd that good picture? what's thy interest

In this sad wreck? how came it, and who is it?
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 lyes slain: alas!
There are no more such masters: I may wander
From East to Occident, cry out for service,
Try many, all good, serve them truly, never
Find such another master.

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

Imo.
Richard du Champ. If I do lye, and do
No harm by it, though the Gods hear, I hope, [Aside.
They'll pardon it. Say you, Sir?

Luc.
Thy name?

Imo.
Fidele, Sir.

Luc.
Thou dost approve thy self the very same;
Thy name well fits thy faith; thy faith, thy name.

Wilt take thy chance with me? I will not say
Thou shalt be so well master'd, but, be sure,
No less belov'd. The Roman Emperor's letters,
Sent by a Consul to me, should no sooner,
Than thine own worth, prefer thee: go with me.

Imo.
I'll follow, Sir. But first, an't please the Gods,
I'll hide my master from the flies as deep
As these door ^note pickaxes can dig: and when
With wild wood-leaves and weeds I ha' strew'd his Grave,
And on it said a century of pray'rs,
(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 dazied-plot we can,
And make him with our pikes and partizans
A Grave; come, arm him: 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. [Exeunt.

Previous section

Next section