Bel. I fear, 'twill be reveng'd: 'Would, Polydore, thou had'st not done't! though valour Becomes thee well enough. Aro. 'Would I had done't, So the revenge alone pursued me!-Polydore, I love thee brotherly; but envy much, Thou hast robb'd me of this deed: I would, revenges, That possible strength might meet, would seek us through, And put us to our answer. Well, 'tis done : Bel. Aro. Poor sick Fidele ! I'll willingly to him: To gain his colour, I'd let a parish of such Clotens blood, And praise myself for charity. [Exit, O thou goddess, Bel. Not wagging his sweet head: and yet as rough, 9 Regain, restore. Civility not seen from other; valour, That wildly grows in them, but yields a crop Gui. Re-enter GUIDERIUS. Where's my brother? [Solemn Musick. I have sent Cloten's clotpoll down the stream, Bel. My ingenious instrument! Hark, Polydore, it sounds! But what occasion Hath Cadwal now to give it motion! Hark! Gui. Is he at home?. Bel. He went hence even now. Gui. What does he mean? since death of my dear'st mother It did not speak before. All solemn things Is Cadwal mad? Re-enter ARVIRAGUS, bearing IMOGEN as dead, in his Arms. Bel. Look, here he comes, And brings the dire occasion in his arms, Of what we blame him for! Aro. The bird is dead, That we have made so much on. I had rather 1 Trifles. Have skipp'd from sixteen years of age to sixty, Gui. O sweetest, fairest lily! My brother wears thee not the one half so well, As when thou grew'st thyself. Bel. O, melancholy! Who ever yet could sound thy bottom? find The ooze, to show what coast thy sluggish crare2 Might easiliest harbour in?-Thou blessed thing! Jove knows what man thou might'st have made; but I, Thou diedst, a most rare boy, of melancholy!- Aro. Stark, as you see : Thus smiling, as some fly had tickled slumber, Not as death's dart, being laugh'd at: his right cheek Reposing on a cushion. Gui. Arv. Where? O'the floor; His arms thus leagu'd: I thought, he slept; and put My clouted brogues 4 from off my feet, whose rudeness Answer'd my steps too loud. Gui. Why, he but sleeps: If he be gone, he'll make his grave a bed; Aro. With fairest flowers, Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, 2 A slow-sailing, unwieldy vessel. 4 Shoes plated with iron, 3 Stiff The flower, that's like thy face, pale primrose; nor Those rich-left heirs, that let their fathers lie Yea, and furr'd moss besides, when flowers are none, Gui. Pr'ythee, have done; And do not play in wench-like words with that And not protract with admiration what Aro. Say, where shall's lay him? Gui. By good Euriphile, our mother. Be't so: And let us, Polydore, though now our voices Have got the mannish crack, sing him to the ground, Gui. Cadwal, I cannot sing: I'll weep, and word it with thee: Than priests and fanes that lie. Arv. ་ We'll speak it then. Bel. Great griefs, I see, medicine the less: for Cloten Is quite forgot. He was a queen's son, boys: 5 The red-breast. Probably a corrupt reading, for, wither round thy corse. He was paid for that: Though mean and mighty, rotting Together, have one dust; yet reverence, (That angel of the world,) doth make distinction Pray you, fetch him hither. Gui. When neither are alive. Aro. # If you'll go fetch him. [Exit BELARIUS. Gui. Nay, Cadwal, we must lay his head to the east; My father hath a reason for't. Arv. "Tis true. Gui, Come on then, and remove him. Arv. SONG. So,-begin. Gui. Fear no more the heat o'the sun, Nor the furious winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages; Golden lads and girls all must, Arv. Fear no more the frown o'the great, Thou art past the tyrant's stroke ; To thee the reed is as the oak: "Punished. |