Let ordinance
Come as the gods foresay it; howsoe’er,
My brother hath done well.

I had no mind
To hunt this day; the boy Fidele's sickness
Did make my way long forth."

With his own sword,
Which he did wave against my throat, I have ta’en
His head from him. I'll throw't into the creek
Behind our rock ; and let it to the sea,
And tell the fishes, he's the queen's son, Cloten.
That's all I reck.

[Exit. Bel.

I fear 'twill be revenged; 'Would, Polydore, thou had'st not done't! though

valor Becomes thee well enough. Arv.

Would I had done't, So the revenge alone pursued me !—Polydore, I love thee brotherly ; but envy much, Thou hast robbed me of this deed. I would revenges, That possible strength might meet, would seek us

And put us to our answer.

Bel. Well, 'tis done ;-
We'll hunt no more to-day, nor seek for danger
Where there's no profit. I pr’ythee, to our rock;
You and Fidele play the cooks. I'll
Till hasty Polydore return, and bring him
To dinner presently.

Poor sick Fidele!
I'll willingly to him. To gain his color,
I'd let a parish of such Clotens blood,
And praise myself for charity.

[Exit. Bel.

O thou goddess,

I'll stay

1 « Fidele's sickness made my walk forth from the cave tedious.

2 Such pursuit of vengeance as fell within any possibility of opposition.”

3 « To restore Fidele to the bloom of health, to recall the color into his cheeks, I would let out the blood of a whole parish, or any number of such fellows as Cloten." A parish is a common phrase for a great number.

Thou divine Nature, how thyself thou blazon'st
In these two princely boys! They are as gentle
As zephyrs, blowing below the violet,
Not wagging his sweet head; and yet as rough,
Their royal blood enchafed, as the rud'st wind,
That by the top doth take the mountain pine,
And make him stoop to the vale. 'Tis wonderful,
That an invisible instinct should frame them
To royalty unlearned ; honor untaught;
Civility not seen from other; valor,
That wildly grows in them, but yields a crop
As if it had been sowed! Yet still it's strange
What Cloten's being here to us portends ;
Or what his death will bring us.


Where's my brother? I have sent Cloten's clotpoll down the stream, In embassy to his mother; his body's hostage For his return.

[Solemn music. Bel.

My ingenious instrument !
Hark, Polydore, it sounds! but what occasion
Hath Cadwal now to give it motion ? Hark!

Gui. Is he at home?

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
Should answer solemn accidents. The matter?
Triumphs for nothing, and lamenting toys,
Is jollity for apes, and grief for boys.
Is Cadwal mad ?


Re-enter Arviragus, bearing IMOGEN, as dead, in his


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


| Toys are trifles.


The bird is dead, That we have made so much on. I had rather Have skipped from sixteen years


age to sixty,
To have turned my leaping time into a crutch,
Than have seen this.

O sweetest, fairest lily!
My brother wears thee not the one half so well

As when thou grew'st thyself.

O melancholy!
Who ever yet could sound thy bottom ? find
The ooze, to show what coast thy sluggish crare

1 Might easiliest harbor in ?-Thou blessed thing! Jove knows what man thou might'st have made ?

but 1, Thou diedst, a most rare boy, of melancholy !How found


him? Arv.

Stark, as you see. Thus smiling, as some fly had tickled slumber, Not as death's dart, being laughed at; his right cheek Reposing on a cushion. Gui.

Where? Arv.

O'the floor;
His arms thus leagued. I thought he slept; and put
My clouted brogues * from off my feet, whose rudeness
Answered my steps too loud.

Why, he but sleeps.
If he be gone, he'll make his grave a bed ;
With female fairies will his tomb be haunted,
And worms will not come to thee.

With fairest flowers, Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele,

1 A crare was a small vessel of burden, sometimes spelled craer, crayer, and even craye. The old copy reads, erroneously, “ — thy sluggish care.” Th emendation was suggested by Sympson in a note on The Captain of Beaumont and Fletcher.

2 We should most probably read, but ah!Ay is always printed ah! in the first folio, and other books of the time. Hence, perhaps, I, which was used for the affirmative particle ay, crept into the text.

3 Stark means entirely cold and stiff.

4 “ Clouted brogues” are coarse wooden shoes, strengthened with clout or hob-nails. In some parts of England thin plates of iron, called clouts, are fixed to the shoes of rustics.

I'll sweeten thy sad grave. Thou shalt not lack
The flower, that's like thy face, pale primrose; nor
The azured harebell, like thy veins; no, nor
The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander,
Out-sweetened not thy breath. The ruddock ? would
With charitable bill (O bill, sore-shaming
Those rich-left heirs, that let their fathers lie
Without a monument !) bring thee all this ;
Yea, and furred moss besides, when flowers are none,
To winter-ground” thy corse.

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 the grave.

Say, where shall's lay him ? Gui. By good Euriphile, our mother.

And let us, Polydore, though now our voices
Have got the mannish crack, sing him to the ground
As once our mother; use like note, and words,
Save that Euriphile must be Fidele.

Gui. Cadwal,
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.

We'll speak it then. Bel. Great griefs, I see, medicine the less ;3 for

Cloten Is quite forgot. He was a queen's son, boys ; And, though he came our enemy, remember, He was paid * for that. Though mean and mighty,


Be't so.

i The ruddock is the redbreast.

2 To winter-ground appears to mean to dress or decorate thy corse with “ furred moss," for a winter covering. 3 So in King Lear:

Where the greater malady is fixed,

The lesser is scarce felt." 4 i. e. punished.

Together, have one dust; yet reverence
(That angel of the world) doth make distinction
Of place 'tween high and low. Our foe was princely;
And though you took his life, as being our foe,
Yet bury him as a prince.

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

If you'll go fetch him, We'll say our song the whilst.—Brother, begin.

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.



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,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Arv. Fear no more the frown o' the great ;

Thou art past the tyrant's stroke ;
Care no more to clothe, and eat ;

To thee the reed is as the oak.
The sceptre, learning, physic must
All follow this, and come to dust."

Gui. Fear no more the lightning-flash.
Arv. Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone ;

1 The Poet's sentiment seems to have been this :-All human excellence is equally subject to the stroke of death: neither the power of kings, nor the science of scholars, nor the art of those whose immediate study is the prolongation of life, can protect them from the final destiny of man.

« VorigeDoorgaan »