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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.
A headless man! -The garments of Posthumus!
I know the shape of his leg: this is his hand;
His foot Mercurial; His Martial thigh:

The brawns of Hercules: But his Jovial3 faceMurder 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,
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,
Where is thy head? where's that? Ah 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

2 An arrow.

3 A face like Jove's.

4

+ Lawless, licentious.

Have laid this woe here. O, 'tis pregnant, preg

nant! 5

The drug he gave me, which, he said, was precious
And cordial to me, have I not found it

Murd'rous 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
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 readiness.

Luc.

But what from Rome?

Cap. The senate hath stirr'd up the cónfiners, And gentlemen of Italy; most willing spirits, That promise noble service: and they come Under the conduct of bold Iachimo,

Sienna's brother.

Luc.

When expect you them? Cap. With the next benefit o'the wind. Luc.

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?

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

5 i. e. 'Tis a ready, apposite conclusion.

From the spungy 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.

Dream often so,

Luc.
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!-
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.

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 was he,
That, otherwise than noble nature did,

Hath alter'd that good picture? What's thy in

terest

In this sad wreck? How came it? Who is it?
What art thou?

Imo.

I am nothing or if not, Nothing to be were better. This was my master, A ve very valiant Briton, and a good,

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.

Luc.

'Lack, good youth!

Thou mov'st no less with thy complaining, than Thy master in bleeding: Say his name, good friend.

6 The west.

Imo. Richard du Champ. If I do lie, and do No harm by it, though the gods hear, I hope

They'll pardon it. Say you, sir?

Luc.

[Aside.

Thy name?

Fidele.

Imo. 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 pick-axes7 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.

Ay, good youth.
And rather father thee, than master thee.
My friends,

The boy hath taught us manly duties: Let us
Find out the prettiest daizied plot we can,
And make him with our pikes and partizans
A grave: Come, arm him.-Boy, he is preferr'd
By thee to us; and he shall be interr'd,
As soldiers can. Be cheerful; wipe thine eyes:
Some falls are means the happier to arise.

7 Her fingers.

[Exeunt.

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: Hea

vens,

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How deeply you at once do touch me! Imogen, The great part of my comfort, gone: my queen Upon a desperate bed; and in a time

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When fearful wars point at me; her son gone, So needful for this present: It strikes me, past The hope of comfort. But for thee, fellow, Who needs must know of her departure, and Dost seem so ignorant, we'll enforce it from thee By a sharp torture.

Pis.

Sir, my life is yours, I humbly set it at your will: But, for my mistress, I nothing know where she remains, why gone, Nor when she purposes return. 'Beseech your

highness,

Hold me your loyal servant.

1 Lord.
Good, my liege,
The day that she was missing, he was here:
I dare be bound he's true, and shall perform
All parts of his subjection loyally,

For Cloten,

There wants no diligence in seeking him,
And will, no doubt; be found.

Cym.

The time's troublesome :

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