| Imogen |
So sick I am not, yet I am not well; |
|
|
|
But not so citizen a wanton as |
|
|
|
To seem to die ere sick: so please you, leave me; |
|
|
|
Stick to your journal course: the breach of custom |
10 |
|
|
Is breach of all. I am ill, but your being by me |
|
|
|
Cannot amend me; society is no comfort |
|
|
|
To one not sociable: I am not very sick, |
|
|
|
Since I can reason of it. Pray you, trust me here: |
|
|
|
I'll rob none but myself; and let me die, |
15 |
|
|
Stealing so poorly. |
|
|
| Belarius |
No single soul
|
|
|
|
Can we set eye on; but in all safe reason |
130 |
|
|
He must have some attendants. Though his humour |
|
|
|
Was nothing but mutation, ay, and that |
|
|
|
From one bad thing to worse; not frenzy, not |
|
|
|
Absolute madness could so far have raved |
|
|
|
To bring him here alone; although perhaps |
135 |
|
|
It may be heard at court that such as we |
|
|
|
Cave here, hunt here, are outlaws, and in time |
|
|
|
May make some stronger head; the which he hearing-- |
|
|
|
As it is like him--might break out, and swear |
|
|
|
He'd fetch us in; yet is't not probable |
140 |
|
|
To come alone, either he so undertaking, |
|
|
|
Or they so suffering: then on good ground we fear, |
|
|
|
If we do fear this body hath a tail |
|
|
|
More perilous than the head. |
|
|
| Belarius |
O thou goddess,
|
|
|
|
Thou divine Nature, how thyself thou blazon'st |
|
|
|
In these two princely boys! They are as gentle |
170 |
|
|
As zephyrs blowing below the violet, |
|
|
|
Not wagging his sweet head; and yet as rough, |
|
|
|
Their royal blood enchafed, as the rudest wind, |
|
|
|
That by the top doth take the mountain pine, |
|
|
|
And make him stoop to the vale. 'Tis wonder |
175 |
|
|
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 |
180 |
|
|
What Cloten's being here to us portends, |
|
|
|
Or what his death will bring us. |
|
|
| 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 |
220 |
|
|
The azured harebell, 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 |
225 |
|
|
Without a monument!--bring thee all this; |
|
|
|
Yea, and furr'd moss besides, when flowers are none, |
|
|
|
To winter-ground thy corse. |
|
|
| Belarius |
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 |
245 |
|
|
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. |
250 |
|
| Belarius |
Here's a few flowers; but 'bout midnight,
more: |
|
|
|
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 |
285 |
|
|
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. |
|
|
|
These flowers are like the pleasures
of the world; |
295 |
|
|
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 |
300 |
|
|
Are sometimes like our judgments, blind. Good faith, |
|
|
|
I tremble stiff 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 |
305 |
|
|
Without me, as within me; not imagined, 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 |
310 |
|
|
Murder in heaven?--How!--'Tis gone. Pisanio, |
|
|
|
All curses madded Hecuba gave the Greeks, |
|
|
|
And mine to boot, be darted on thee! Thou, |
|
|
|
Conspired with that irregulous devil, Cloten, |
|
|
|
Hast here cut off my lord. To write and read |
315 |
|
|
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? |
320 |
|
|
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 |
325 |
|
|
And cordial to me, have I not found it |
|
|
|
Murderous to the senses? That confirms it home: |
|
|
|
This is Pisanio's deed, and Cloten's: O! |
|
|
|
Give colour to my pale cheek with thy blood, |
|
|
|
That we the horrider may seem to those |
330 |
|
|
Which chance to find us: O, my lord, my lord! |
|
|
| 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 |
370 |
|
|
From east to occident, cry out for service, |
|
|
|
Try many, all good, serve truly, never |
|
|
|
Find such another master. |
|
|
| 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, |
390 |
|
|
Such as I can, twice o'er, I'll weep and sigh; |
|
|
|
And leaving so his service, follow you, |
|
|
|
So please you entertain me. |
|
|