The arden shakespeare co.., p.115
The Arden Shakespeare Complete Works, page 115
How found you him?
ARVIRAGUS Stark, as you see:
Thus smiling, as some fly had tickled slumber,
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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:
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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
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The flower that’s like thy face, pale primrose, nor
The azur’d harebell, 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
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Those rich-left heirs, that let their fathers lie
Without a monument!) bring thee all this;
Yea, and furr’d moss besides. When flowers are none,
To winter-ground thy corse –
GUIDERIUS Prithee, have done,
And do not play in wench-like words with that
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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
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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;
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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,
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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,
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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 the east,
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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 has done,
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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,
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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.
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ARVIRAGUS Nor th’all-dreaded thunder-stone.
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.
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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,
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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 fitt’st for graves: upon their faces.
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You were as flowers, 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.
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Exeunt Belarius, Guiderius and Arviragus.
IMOGEN [awakes]
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!
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[seeing the body of Cloten]
These flowers 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,
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Which the brain makes of fumes. Our very eyes
Are sometimes like our judgements, 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!
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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:
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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,
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Hast 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,
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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!
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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,
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That we the horrider may seem to those
Which chance to find us. O, my lord! my lord!
[Falls 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:
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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,
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Siena’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?
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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
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(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?
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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,
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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
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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!
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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
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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:
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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
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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
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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.
LUCIUS Ay, good youth;
