The herbs, that have on them cold dew o'the night, Are strewings fitt'st for graves.-Upon their faces:— You were as flowers, now wither'd: even so These herb'lets 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 Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus. Imo. [Awaking] Yes, sir, to Milford-flaven; Which is the way?→→→ I thank you. By yon bush?-Pray, how far thither? 'Ods pittikins* !—can it be six miles yet? I have gone all night:-'Faith, I'll lie down and sleep. But, soft! no bedfellow:-0, gods and goddesses! [Seeing the body. These flowers are like the pleasures of the world; And cook to honest creatures: But 'tis not so ; faith, Good I tremble still with fear: But if there be * This diminutive adjuration is derived from God's my pity. t.An arrow. A face like Jove's. Conspir'd with that irregulous* devil, Cloten, 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 Which chance to find us; O, my lord, my lord! Enter Lucius, a Captain and other Officers, and a Soothsayer. 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 here in readines. Luc. But what from Rome? Cap. The senate hath stirr'd up the cónfiuers, And gentlemen of Italy; most willing spirits, That promise noble service: and they come Under the conduct of bold fachimo, ti. e. 'Tis a ready, apposite conclusion. 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. 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 the Roman host. Luc. Dream often so, And never false.-Soft, ho! what trunk is here, With the defunct, or sleep upon the dead.- Cap. He is 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? Or who he, That, otherwise than noble nature did, Hath alter'd that good picture? What's thy interest Imo. I am nothing: or if not, Nothing to be were better. This was my master, That here by mountaineers lies slain:-Alas! There are 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. The west. Luc. 'Lack, good youth! Thou mov'st no less with thy complaining, than They'll pardon it. Say you, sir? Luc. Imo. [Aside. Thy name? Fidele. Luc. 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. Imo. 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 have strew'd his grave, And on it said a century of prayers, 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. The boy hath taught us manly duties: Let us As soldiers can. Be cheerful; wipe thine eyes; • Her fingers. SCENE III. A room in Cymbeline's palace. Enter Cymbeline, Lords, and Pisanio. Cym. Again; and bring me word, how 'tis with her. A fever with the absence of her son; A madness, of which her life's in danger: Heavens, When fearful wars point at me; her son gone, Pis. Sir, my life is yours. I humbly set it at your will: But, for my mistress, ness, Hold me your loyal servant. 1 Lord. Good my liege, The day that she was missing, he was here: For Cloten, There wants no diligence in seeking him, Cym, 2 The time's troublesome: [To Pisanio. We'll slip you for a season; but our jealousy Does yet depend. 1 Lord. So please your majesty, The Roman legions, all from Gallia drawn, |