Puslapio vaizdai
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Golden Lads and Girls all must,
As Chimney Sweepers come to Duft.

Arv. Fear no more the Frown o'th Great,
Thou art past the Tyrant's stroke,
Care no more to Cleath and Eat,
To thee the Reed is as the Oak:
The Scepter, Learning, Phyfick muft,
All follow this, and come to Duft.
Guid. Fear no more the Lightning flash.
Arv. Nor th' all-dreaded Thunder-ftone.
Guid. Fear no Slander, Cenfure, rash.
Arv. Thou hast finish'd Joy and Moan.
Both. All Lovers young, all Lovers must,
Confign to thee, and come to Duft.
Guid. No Exorcifer harm thee.
Arv. Nor no Witchcraft charm thee.
Guid. Ghost unlaid forbear thee.
Arv. Nothing ill come near thee.
Both. Quiet confummation have,

And renowned be thy Grave.

Enter Bellarius with the Body of Cloten.

Guid. We have done our Obfequies:

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 ftrewings fitt'ft for Graves: upon their Faces-
You were as Flow'rs, now wither'd; even fo
Thefe Herbelets fhall, which we upon you ftrew.
Come on, away, apart upon our Knees

The Ground that gave them firft, has them again:
Their Pleafures here are paft, fo are their Pain.

[Exeunt. [Imogen awakes. Yes, Sir, to Milford-Haven, which is the way ? Ithank you---by yond Buth---pray how far thither?'Ods pitikirs can it be fix Mile yet?

I have gone all Nigh-- 'faith, I'll ye down and fleep.
But foft! no Bedfellow!---Oh Gods, and Goddesses!

[Seeing the Body.

The Flow'rs are like the Pleafures of the World;
This bloody Man the care on't. I hope I dream;
For fo I thought I was a Cave-keeper,
And Cook to honeft Creatures. But 'tis not fo:

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'Twas but a bolt of nothing, fhot at nothing,
Which the Brain makes of Fumes. Our very Eyes,
Are fometimes like our Judgments, blind. Good Faith
I tremble ftill with fear; but if there be
Yet left in Heav'n, as fmall a drop of pity
As a Wren's Eye: fear'd Gods, a part of it.
The Dream's here ftill, even when I wake, it is
Without me, as within me; not imagin'd, felt.
A headless Man! The Garments of Pofthumus?
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 Heav'n! How!-'tis gone--Pifanio!---
All curfes madded Hecuba gave the Greeks,
And mine to boot, be darted on thee! thou
Confpir'd with that irregulous Devil Cloten,
Have here cut off my Lord. To write, and read,
Be henceforth treacherous. Damn'd Pifanio
Hath with his forg'd Letters--damo'd Pifanio!..
From this moft braveft Veffel of the World
Struck the main top! Oh Pofthumus, alas,

Where is thy Head? where's that? Ay me, ay, where's that?
Pifanio might have kill'd thee at the Heart,

And left his Head on. How fhould this be, Pifanio!-
'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 faid was precious
And Cordial to me, have I not found it
Murd'rous to th' Senfes ? that confirms it home:
This is Pifanio's deed, and Cloten: Oh!

Give colour to my pale Cheek with thy Blood,
That we the horrider may feem to thofe

Which chance to find us. Oh, my Lord! my Lord!
Enter Lucius, Captains, and a Soothsayer.

Cap. To them, the Legions garrifon'd in Gallia
After your will, have crofs'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, moft willing Spirits,

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That promife Noble Service: and they come
Under the Conduct of bold Iachimo,
Syenna's Brother.

Luc. When expect you them?

Gap. With the next benefit o'th' Wind.
Luc. This forwardness

Makes our hopes fair. Command our prefent numbers,
Be mustered, bid the Captains look to't. Now, Sir,
What have you dream'd of late of this War's purpose?
Sooth. Laft Night the very gods fhew'd me a Vifion
(I fast, and pray'd for their Intelligence) thus:
I faw Jove's Bird, the Roman Eagle wing'd
From the Spungy South, to this part of the Weft,
There vanish'd in the Sun-beams, which portends,
Unless my Sins abufe my Divination,

Succefs to th' Roman Hoft.

Luc. Dream often fo,

And never falle. Soft ho, what Trunk is here?
Without his top? the ruin fpeaks, that sometime
It was a worthy building. How! a Page!
Or dead, or fleeping on him? but dead rather:
For Nature doth abhor to make his bed

With the defunct, or fleep upon the dead,

Let's fee the Boy's Face.

Cap He's alive, my Lord.

Luc. He'll then inftruct us of his Body. Young one,

Inform us of the Fortunes, for it seems

They crave to be demanded: who is this

Thou mak'ft thy bloody Pillow? Or who was he

That, otherwife than noble Nature did,

Hath alter'd that good Picture? What's thy Intereft
In this fad wrack? How came't? Who is'c ?
What art thou?

Imo. I am nothing; or if not,

Nothing to be, were better: This was my Mafter,
A very valiant Britain, and a good,

That here by Mountainers lyes flain: Alas!
There are no more fuch Milters: I may wander
From Eaft to Occident, cry out for Service,.
Try many, all good, ferve truly, never

Find fuch another Mafter.

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Luc. 'Lack, good Youth!

Thou mov't no lefs with thy complaining, than
Thy Mafter in bleeding: Say his name, good Friend:
Imo. Richard du Camp: If I do lye, and do

No harm by it, though the Gods hear, I hope
They'll pardon it. Say you, Sir?
Luc. Thy name?

Imo. Fidele, Sir.

Luc. Thou doft approve thy felf the very fame;
Thy Name well fits thy Faith, thy Faith, thy Name.
Wil take thy change with me? I will not fay
The fhalt be fo well mafter'd, but be fure
No lefs belov'd. The Roman Emperor's Letters
Sent by a Conful to me, fhould no fooner
Than thine own worth prefer thee: Go with me.

[Afide.

Imo. I'll follow, Sir. But firft an't pleafe the Gods, I'll hide my Malter from the Flies as deep

As thefe poor Pickaxes can dig: and when

With wild Wood-leaves and Weeds I ha' ftrew'd his Grave,

And on it faid a Century of Pray'rs,

Such as I can, twice o'er, I'll weep, and figh,

And leaving fo his fervice, follow you,

So please you entertain me.

Luc. Ay, good Youth,

And rather Father thee, than Mafter thee. My Friends,
The Boy hath taught us manly Duties: Let us
Find out the prettieft 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 arife.

SCENE III.
III. The Palace.

Enter Cymbeline, Lords, and Pifanio.

[Exeunt.

Cym. Again; and bring me word how us with her;
A Fever with the abfence of her Son;

A Madness, of which her Life's in danger; Heav'ns!
How deeply you at once do touch me. Imogen,
The great part of my Comfort, gone! My Queen

Upon

Upon a defperate Bed, and in a time
When fearful Wars point at me! Her Son gone,
So needful for this prefent! It ftrikes me, paft
The hope of Comfort. But for thee, Fellow,
Who needs muft know of her Departure, and
Doft feem fo ignorant, we'll inforce it from thee
By a fharp torture.

Pif. Sir, my Life is yours,

Beleech your Highness,

I humbly fet it at your Will: Bt for my Mistress,
I nothing know where the remains; why gone,
Nor when the purposes return.
Hold me your Loyal Servant.
Lord. Good my Liege,

The Day that he was mifling, he was here;
I dare be bound he's true, and fhall perform
All parts of his Subjection loyally. For Cloten,
There wants no diligence in feeking him,
And will no doubt be found.

Cym. The time is troublesome;

We'll flip you for a Seafon, but with Jealoufie
Do's yet depend.

Lord. So please your Majefty,

The Roman Legions all from Gallia drawn,

Are landed on your Coaft, with large fupply
Of Roman Gentlemen, by the Senate fent.

Cym. Now for the Counsel of my Son and Queen.
I am amaz'd with matter.

Lord. Good my Liege,

Your Preparation can affront no lefs

Than what you hear of.

Come more, for more you're ready;

The want is, but to put thefe Powers in Motion,

That long to move.

Cym. I thank you; let's withdraw

And meet the time, as it fecks us. We fear not

What can from Italy annoy us, but

We grieve at Chances here. Away.

Pif. I heard no Letter from my Mafter, fince
I wrote him Imogen was flain. 'Tis ftrange;
Nor hear I from my Miftrefs, who did promife
To yield me often tidings. Neither know I

[Exeunt.

What

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