That wildly grows in them, but yields a crop
As if it had been sow'd.

Enter ARVIRAGUS, bearing IMOGEN, as dead, in his

Bél.

Arms.

Look, bere he comes,

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

The bird is dead,

Arv.
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.

Gui.
O sweetest, fairest lily!
My brother wears thee not the one half so well,
As when thou grew'st thyself.

Bel.

O, melancholy! Who ever yet could sound thy bottom? find

The ooze, to show what coast thy sluggish crare*
Might easiliest harbour in?-Thou blessed thing!
Jove knows what man thou might'st have made;
but I,

Thou diedst, a most rare boy, of melancholy!—
How found you him?

Arv.

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.

Gui.

Arv.

Where? O' the floor;

His arms thus leagu'd: I thought, he slept; and put My clouted brogues from off my feet, whose rude

ness

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.

Arv.

Why, he but sleeps:

With fairest flowers,

+ Stiff.

A slow sailing, unwieldy vessel.
Shoes plated with iron.

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-sweeten'd 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 flowers are none,
To winter-ground + thy corse.

*

*

*

*

*

Bel. Great griefs, I see, medicine 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.

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

FUNERAL DIRGE.

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 red-breast.

Probably a corrupt reading, for wither round thy corse.
Punished..

CYMBELINE.

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;
Gui. Fear not slander, censure * rash;
Arv. Thou hast finish'd joy and moan:
Both. All lovers young, all lovers must

Consign + to thee, and come to dust.
Gui. No exorciser harm thee!
Arv. Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Gui. Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Arv. Nothing ill come near thee!
Both. Quiet consummation havè;
And renowned be thy grave!

IMOGEN, AWAKING.

Yes, sir, to Milford-Haven;

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.

Buf, soft! no bedfellow :-O, gods and goddesses!
[Seeing the Body.
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,
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.

* Judgment.

pity.

+ Seal the same contract. This diminutive adjuration is derived from God's my An arrow.

ACT V.

A ROUTED ARMY.

No blame be to you, sir; for all was lost,
But that the heavens fought: The king himself
Of his wings destitute, the army broken,
And but the backs of Britons seen, all flying
Through a strait lane; the enemy full-hearted,
Lolling the tongue with slaughtering, having work
More plentiful than tools to do't, struck down
Some mortally, some slightly touch'd, some falling
Merely through fear; that the straight pass was
damm'd*

With dead men, hurt behind, and cowards living
To die with lengthen'd shame.

DEATH.

I, in mine own woe charm'd,

Could not find death, where I did hear him

groan;

Nor feel him, where he struck: Being an ugly mon

ster,

"Tis strange, he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds, Sweet words; or hath more ministers than we That draw his knives i' the war.

HAMLET.

ACT I.

PRODIGIES,

IN the most high and palmy + state of Rome,
A little ere the mightiest Julius fell,

The graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted dead
Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets.

* Blocked up.

+ Victorious

As, stars with trains of fire and dews of blood,
Disasters in the sun; and the moist star*,
Upon whose influence Neptune's empire stands,
Was sick almost to doomsday with eclipse.

GHOSTS VANISH AT THE CROWING OF A COCK.

Ber. It was about to speak, when the cock crew. Hor. And then it started like a guilty thing Upon a fearful summons. I have heard, The cock, that is the trumpet of the morn, Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat Awake the god of day; and, at his warning, Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air, The extravagant and erring + spirit hies To his confine: and of the truth herein This present object made probation ‡.

THE REVERENCE PAID TO CHRISTMAS TIME.

It faded on the crowing of the cock. Some say, that ever 'gainst that season comes Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, This bird of dawning singeth all night long: And then they say no spírit dares stir abroad; The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike, No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm, So hallow'd and so gracious is the time.

But, look, the morn, in russet mantle clad, Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill.

REAL GRIEF.

Seems, madam! nay, it is; I know not seems.
'Tis not alone, my inky cloak, good mother,
Nor customary suits of solemn black,
Nor windy suspiration of forc'd breath,
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,
Nor the dejected haviour of the visage,
Together with all forms, modes, shows of grief,
That can denote me truly: These, indeed, seem,

The moon.

Wandering.

+ Proof.