The Complete Works of William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare (moboreader .TXT) 📕

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.

BELARIUS. Well, ‘tis done.

We’ll hunt no more to-day, nor seek for danger Where there’s no profit. I prithee to our rock.

You and Fidele play the cooks; I’ll stay Till hasty Polydore return, and bring him To dinner presently.

ARVIRAGUS. Poor sick Fidele!

I’ll willingly to him; to gain his colour I’d let a parish of such Cloten’s blood, And praise myself for charity. Exit BELARIUS. O thou goddess,

Thou divine Nature, thou 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 enchaf’d, as the rud’st wind That by the top doth take the mountain pine And make him stoop to th’ vale. ‘Tis wonder That an invisible instinct should frame them To royalty unlearn’d, honour untaught, Civility not seen from other, valour

That wildly grows in them, but yields a crop As if it had been sow’d. Yet still it’s strange What Cloten’s being here to us portends, Or what his death will bring us.

Re-enter GUIDERIUS

GUIDERIUS. 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]

BELARIUS. My ingenious instrument!

Hark, Polydore, it sounds. But what occasion Hath Cadwal now to give it motion? Hark!

GUIDERIUS. Is he at home?

BELARIUS. He went hence even now.

GUIDERIUS. 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, with IMOGEN as dead, bearing her in his arms

BELARIUS. Look, here he comes,

And brings the dire occasion in his arms Of what we blame him for!

ARVIRAGUS. The bird is dead

That we have made so much on. I had rather Have skipp’d from sixteen years of age to sixty, To have turn’d my leaping time into a crutch, Than have seen this.

GUIDERIUS. O sweetest, fairest lily!

My brother wears thee not the one half so well As when thou grew’st thyself.

BELARIUS. O melancholy!

Who ever yet could sound thy bottom? find The ooze to show what coast thy sluggish crare Might’st easiliest harbour in? Thou blessed thing!

Jove knows what man thou mightst have made; but I, Thou diedst, a most rare boy, of melancholy.

How found you him?

ARVIRAGUS. 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.

GUIDERIUS. Where?

ARVIRAGUS. O’ th’ floor;

His arms thus leagu’d. I thought he slept, and put My clouted brogues from off my feet, whose rudeness Answer’d my steps too loud.

GUIDERIUS. 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.

ARVIRAGUS. With fairest flowers,

Whilst summer lasts and I live here, Fidele, I’ll sweeten thy sad grave. Thou shalt not lack The flower that’s like thy face, pale primrose; nor The azur’d hare-bell, like thy veins; no, nor The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander, Out-sweet’ned 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 furr’d moss besides, when flow’rs are none, To winter-ground thy corse-GUIDERIUS. Prithee 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.

ARVIRAGUS. Say, where shall’s lay him?

GUIDERIUS. By good Euriphile, our mother.

ARVIRAGUS. Be’t so;

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

GUIDERIUS. 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.

ARVIRAGUS. We’ll speak it, then.

BELARIUS. 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 He was paid for that. Though mean and mighty rotting 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.

GUIDERIUS. Pray you fetch him hither.

Thersites’ body is as good as Ajax’,

When neither are alive.

ARVIRAGUS. If you’ll go fetch him,

We’ll say our song the whilst. Brother, begin.

Exit BELARIUS

GUIDERIUS. Nay, Cadwal, we must lay his head to th’ East; My father hath a reason for’t.

ARVIRAGUS. ‘Tis true.

GUIDERIUS. Come on, then, and remove him.

ARVIRAGUS. So. Begin.

SONG

GUIDERIUS. Fear no more the heat o’ th’ 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.

ARVIRAGUS. Fear no more the frown o’ th’ 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.

GUIDERIUS. Fear no more the lightning flash, ARVIRAGUS. Nor th’ all-dreaded thunderstone; GUIDERIUS. Fear not slander, censure rash; ARVIRAGUS. Thou hast finish’d joy and moan.

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

GUIDERIUS. No exorciser harm thee!

ARVIRAGUS. Nor no witchcraft charm thee!

GUIDERIUS. Ghost unlaid forbear thee!

ARVIRAGUS. Nothing ill come near thee!

BOTH. Quiet consummation have,

And renowned be thy grave!

Re-enter BELARIUS with the body of CLOTEN

GUIDERIUS. We have done our obsequies. Come, lay him down.

BELARIUS. Here’s a few flowers; but ‘bout midnight, more.

The herbs that have on them cold dew o’ th’ night Are strewings fit’st for graves. Upon their faces.

You were as flow’rs, now wither’d. Even so These herblets shall which we upon you strew.

Come on, away. Apart upon our knees.

The ground that gave them first has them again.

Their pleasures here are past, so is their pain.

Exeunt all but IMOGEN

IMOGEN. [Awaking] Yes, sir, to Milford Haven. Which is the way?

I thank you. By yond bush? Pray, how far thither?

‘Ods pittikins! can it be six mile yet?

I have gone all night. Faith, I’ll lie down and sleep.

But, soft! no bedfellow. O gods and goddesses!

[Seeing the body]

These flow’rs are like the pleasures of the world; This bloody man, the care on’t. I hope I dream; For so I thought I was a cave-keeper, And cook to honest creatures. But ‘tis not so; ‘Twas but a bolt of nothing, shot at nothing, Which the brain makes of fumes. Our very eyes Are sometimes, like our judgments, blind. Good faith, I tremble still with fear; but if there be Yet left in heaven as small a drop of pity As a wren’s eye, fear’d gods, a part of it!

The dream’s here still. Even when I wake it is Without me, as within me; not imagin’d, felt.

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-Murder in heaven! How! ‘Tis gone. Pisanio, All curses madded Hecuba gave the Greeks, And mine to boot, be darted on thee! Thou, Conspir’d with that irregulous devil, Cloten, Hath here cut off my lord. To write and read Be henceforth treacherous! Damn’d Pisanio Hath with his forged letters-damn’d Pisanio-From this most bravest vessel of the world Struck the main-top. O Posthumus! alas, Where is thy head? Where’s that? Ay me! where’s that?

Pisanio might have kill’d thee at the heart, And left this head on. How should this be? Pisanio?

‘Tis he and Cloten; malice and lucre in them Have laid this woe here. O, ‘tis pregnant, pregnant!

The drug he gave me, which he said was precious And cordial to me, have I not found it Murd’rous to th’ senses? That confirms it home.

This is Pisanio’s deed, and Cloten. O!

Give colour to my pale cheek with thy blood, That we the horrider may seem to those Which chance to find us. O, my lord, my lord!

[Falls fainting on the body]

Enter LUCIUS, CAPTAINS, and a SOOTHSAYER

CAPTAIN. 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.

LUCIUS. But what from Rome?

CAPTAIN. 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,

Sienna’s brother.

LUCIUS. When expect you them?

CAPTAIN. With the next benefit o’ th’ wind.

LUCIUS. 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?

SOOTHSAYER. Last night the very gods show’d me a vision-I fast and pray’d for their intelligence-thus: I saw Jove’s bird, the Roman eagle, wing’d From the spongy south to this part of the west, There vanish’d in the sunbeams; which portends, Unless my sins abuse my divination,

Success to th’ Roman host.

LUCIUS. 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 bed With the defunct, or sleep upon the dead.

Let’s see the boy’s face.

CAPTAIN. He’s alive, my lord.

LUCIUS. 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? Or 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’t? Who is’t? What art thou?

IMOGEN. 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 lies slain. Alas!

There is no more such masters. I may wander From east to occident; cry out for service; Try many, all good; serve truly; never Find such another master.

LUCIUS. ‘Lack, good youth!

Thou mov’st no less with thy complaining than Thy master in bleeding. Say his name, good friend.

IMOGEN. Richard du Champ. [Aside] If I do lie, and do No harm by it, though the gods hear, I hope They’ll pardon it.- Say you, sir?

LUCIUS. Thy name?

IMOGEN. Fidele, sir.

LUCIUS. Thou dost approve thyself 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 not sooner Than thine own worth prefer thee. Go with me.

IMOGEN. I’ll follow, sir. But first, an’t please the gods, I’ll hide my master from the flies, as deep As these poor pickaxes can dig; and when With wild wood-leaves and weeds I ha’ strew’d his grave, And on it said a century of prayers,