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.Solemn Musick.Bel.My ingenuous Instrument,(Hearke Polidore) it sounds: but what occasionHath Cadwal now to giue it motion? HearkeGui.Is he at home?Bel.He went hence euen nowGui.What does he meane?Since death of my deer'st MotherIt did not speake before.All solemne thingsShould answer solemne Accidents.The matter?Triumphes for nothing, and lamenting Toyes,Is iollity for Apes, and greefe for Boyes.Is Cadwall mad?Enter Aruiragus, with Imogen dead, bearing her in his Armes.Bel.Looke, heere he comes,And brings the dire occasion in his Armes,Of what we blame him forArui.The Bird is deadThat we haue made so much on.I had ratherHaue skipt from sixteene yeares of Age, to sixty:To haue turn'd my leaping time into a Crutch,Then haue seene thisGui.Oh sweetest, fayrest Lilly:My Brother weares thee not the one halfe so well,As when thou grew'st thy selfeBel.Oh Melancholly,Who euer yet could sound thy bottome? FindeThe Ooze, to shew what Coast thy sluggish careMight'st easilest harbour in.Thou blessed thing,Ioue knowes what man thou might'st haue made: but I,Thou dyed'st a most rare Boy, of Melancholly.How found you him?Arui.Starke, as you see:Thus smiling, as some Fly had tickled slumber,Not as deaths dart being laugh'd at: his right CheekeReposing on a CushionGui.Where?Arui.O'th' floore:His armes thus leagu'd, I thought he slept, and putMy clowted Brogues from off my feete, whose rudenesseAnswer'd my steps too lowdGui.Why, he but sleepes:If he be gone, hee'l make his Graue, a Bed:With female Fayries will his Tombe be haunted,And Wormes will not come to theeArui.With fayrest FlowersWhil'st Sommer lasts, and I liue heere, Fidele,Ile sweeten thy sad graue: thou shalt not lackeThe Flower that's like thy face.Pale-Primrose, norThe azur'd Hare-Bell, like thy Veines: no, norThe leafe of Eglantine, whom not to slander,Out-sweetned not thy breath: the Raddocke wouldWith Charitable bill (Oh bill sore shamingThose rich-left-heyres, that let their Fathers lyeWithout a Monument) bring thee all this,Yea, and furr'd Mosse besides.When Flowres are noneTo winter-ground thy Coarse-Gui.Prythee haue done,And do not play in Wench-like words with thatWhich is so serious.Let vs bury him,And not protract with admiration, whatIs now due debt.To'th' graueArui.Say, where shall's lay him?Gui.By good Euriphile, our MotherArui.Bee't so:And let vs (Polidore) though now our voycesHaue got the mannish cracke, sing him to'th' groundAs once to our Mother: vse like note, and words,Saue that Euriphile, must be FideleGui.Cadwall,I cannot sing: Ile weepe, and word it with thee;For Notes of sorrow, out of tune, are worseThen Priests, and Phanes that lyeArui.Wee'l speake it thenBel.Great greefes I see med'cine the lesse: For ClotenIs quite forgot.He was a Queenes Sonne, Boyes,And though he came our Enemy, rememberHe was paid for that: though meane, and mighty rottingTogether haue one dust, yet Reuerence(That Angell of the world) doth make distinctionOf place 'tweene high, and low.Our Foe was Princely,And though you tooke his life, as being our Foe,Yet bury him, as a PrinceGui.Pray you fetch him hither,Thersites body is as good as Aiax,When neyther are aliueArui.If you'l go fetch him,Wee'l say our Song the whil'st: Brother beginGui.Nay Cadwall, we must lay his head to th' East,My Father hath a reason for'tArui.'Tis trueGui.Come on then, and remoue himArui.So, begin.SONG.Guid.Feare no more the heate o'th' Sun,Nor the furious Winters rages,Thou thy worldly task hast don,Home art gon, and tane thy wages.Golden Lads, and Girles all must,As Chimney-Sweepers come to dustArui.Feare no more the frowne o'th' Great,Thou art past the Tirants stroake,Care no more to cloath and eate,To thee the Reede is as the Oake:The Scepter, Learning, Physicke must,All follow this and come to dustGuid.Feare no more the Lightning flashArui.Nor th' all-dreaded ThunderstoneGui.Feare not Slander, Censure rashArui.Thou hast finish'd Ioy and moneBoth.All Louers young, all Louers must,Consigne to thee and come to dustGuid.No Exorcisor harme thee,Arui.Nor no witch-craft charme theeGuid.Ghost vnlaid forbeare theeArui.Nothing ill come neere theeBoth.Quiet consumation haue,And renowned be thy graue.Enter Belarius with the body of Cloten.Gui.We haue done our obsequies:Come lay him downeBel.Heere's a few Flowres, but 'bout midnight more:The hearbes that haue on them cold dew o'th' nightAre strewings fit'st for Graues: vpon their Faces.You were as Flowres, now wither'd: euen soThese Herbelets shall, which we vpon you strew.Come on, away, apart vpon our knees:The ground that gaue them first, ha's them againe:Their pleasures here are past, so are their paine.Exeunt.Imogen awakes.Yes Sir, to Milford-Hauen, which is the way?I thanke you: by yond bush? pray how farre thether?'Ods pittikins: can it be sixe mile yet?I haue gone all night: 'Faith, Ile lye downe, and sleepe.But soft; no Bedfellow? Oh Gods, and Goddesses!These Flowres are like the pleasures of the World;This bloody man the care on't.I hope I dreame:For so I thought I was a Caue-keeper,And Cooke to honest Creatures.But 'tis not so:'Twas but a bolt of nothing, shot of nothing,Which the Braine makes of Fumes.Our very eyes,Are sometimes like our Iudgements, blinde.Good faithI tremble still with feare: but if there beYet left in Heauen, as small a drop of pittieAs a Wrens eye; fear'd Gods, a part of it.The Dreame's heere still: euen when I wake it isWithout me, as within me: not imagin'd, felt.A headlesse man? The Garments of Posthumus?I know the shape of's Legge: this is his Hand:His Foote Mercuriall: his martiall ThighThe brawnes of Hercules: but his Iouiall face-Murther in heauen? How? 'tis gone.Pisanio,All Curses madded Hecuba gaue the Greekes,And mine to boot, be darted on thee: thouConspir'd with that Irregulous diuell Cloten,Hath heere 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 brauest vessell of the worldStrooke the maine top! Oh Posthumus, alas,Where is thy head? where's that? Aye me! where's that?Pisanio might haue kill'd thee at the heart,And left this head on.How should this be, Pisanio?'Tis he, and Cloten: Malice, and Lucre in themHaue laid this Woe heere
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