Might eas❜lieft harbour in?-thou blessed thing!
Jove knows, what man thou might'ft have made;
but I

Thou dy'dft, a moft rare boy, of melancholy!
How found you him?

Arv. Stark, as you fee,

Thus fmiling, as fome fly had tickled flumber
Not as Death's dart, being laugh'd at; his right cheek
Repofing on a cushion.

Guid. Where?

Arv. O' th' floor..

His arms thus leagu'd. I thought, he flept; and put My clouted brogues from off my feet, whofe rudeness Anfwer'd my steps too loud.

Guid. Why, he but fleeps;

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. With faireft flow'rs,

Whilft fummer lafts, and I live here, Fidele,
I'll fweeten thy fad grave. Thou shalt not lack
The flow'r that's like thy face, pale Primrose; nor
The azur'd Hare-bell, like thy veins; no, nor
The leaf of Eglantine, which not to flander,
Out-fweeten'd not thy breath. The Ruddock would,
With charitable bill, oh bill, fore-fhaming
Thofe rich-left heirs, that let their fathers lie
Without a Monument! bring thee all this ;

2.

indeed be faid to be wintergrounded in good thick clay. But the epithet furr'd to mos directs us plainly to another reading,

To winter-gown thy coarse. i. e. the fummer habit fhall be a light gown of flowers, thy winter habit a good warm furr'd gown of mass.

WARBURTON. The Ruddock is the Red-breaft. A a 2 Yea,

Yea, and furr'd mofs befides, when flow'rs are none, To winterground thy coarse.

Guid. Pr'ythee, have done;

And do not play in wench-like words with that
Which is fo ferious. Let us bury him,

And not pro:ract with admiration what
Is now due debt.-To th' grave.

Arv. Say, where fhall's lay him?

Guid. By good Euripbile, our mother.
Arv. Be't fo:

And let us, Paladour, though now our voices

Have got the mannifh crack, fing him to th' ground, As, once, our mother; ufe like note, and words, Save that Euriphile must be Fidele.

Guid. Cadwal,

I cannot fing; I'll weep, and word it with thee;
For notes of forrow, out of tune, are worse
Than Priefts and Fanes that lye.

Arv. We'll fpeak it then.

Bel. Great griefs, I fee, med'cine the lefs. For Cloten

4

Is quite forgot. He was a Queen's fon, boys,
And though he came our enemy, remember,
3 He was paid for that: tho' mean and mighty, rotting
Together, have one duft, yet + reverence,
That angel of the world, doth make diftinction
Of place 'twixt high and low. Our foe was princely,
And though you took his life, as being our foe,
Yet bury him, as a Prince.
Guid. Pray, fetch him hither.

Therfites' body is as good as Ajax,
When neither are alive.

Arv. If you'll go fetch him,

We'll fay our fong the whilft. Brother, begin,
Guid. Nay, Cadwal, we muft lay his head to th'
Eaft;

My father hath a reason for 't.

Arv. 'Tis true.

Guid. Come on then, and remove him.

Arv. So, begin.

SONG.

Guid. Fear no more the beat o' th' Sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task haft done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages.
Both golden lads and girls all must
As chimney Sweepers, come to duft.
Arv.

Fear no more the frown o' th' Great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
Care no more to cloath and eat;

To thee the reed is as the oak:
Both the fcepter, learning, phyfick, must
All follow this, and come to duft.
Guid. Fear no more the lightning flash.
Arv. Nor th' all dreaded thunder-ftone.
Guid. Fear not flander, cenfure rafb.

6

Arv. Thou haft finish'd joy and moan. Both. All lovers young, all lovers must 7 Confign to thee, and come to duft.

5 Fear no more, &c.] This is the topic of confolation that na ture dictates to all men on these occafions. The fame farewel we have over the dead body in Lucian. Τέκνον ἄθλιον ἔκετι διψήσεις, ἔκετι πεινήσεις, &ς.

WARBURTON.

6 Fear not flander, &c.] Perhaps,

Fear not flander's cenfure rafh. 7 Confign to thee,-] Perhaps, Confign to this.

And in the former ftanza for all follow this, we might read, all follow thee.

Guid. No exorcifer harm thee!

Arv. Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Guid. Ghost, unlaid, forbear thee!
Arv. Nothing ill come near thee?
Both. Quiet confummation have,
And renowned be thy Grave! 3.

SCENE

8

VI.

Enter Belarius, with the Body of Cloten.

Guid. We've done our obfequies: come, lay him

down.

Bel. 'Here's a few flow'rs, but about midnight

more;

The herbs, that have on them cold dew o' th' night,
Are ftrewings fitt'it for Graves.-Upon their faces—
You were as flow'rs, now wither'd," even fo
Thefe herbelets fhall, which we upon you ftrow.
Come on, away. Apart upon our knees.
-The ground, that gave them firft, has them again:
Their pleasure here is paft, fo is their pain. [Exeunt.

Imogen, awaking.

1

Imo. Yes, Sir, to Milford-Haven, which is the way ?

I thank you by yond bufh?-pray, how far thither?

'Ods pittikins can it be fix miles yet!

deffes!

I've gone all night-'faith, I'll lie down and fleep. But, foft! no bedfellow,Oh Gods, and God[Seeing the body. Thefe flowers are like the pleafures of the world; This bloody man the care on't.-I hope, I dream;

For the obfequies of Fidele, a fong was written by my unhappy friend, Mr. William Collins of Chichefter, a man of uncommon

learning and abilities. I fhall give it a place at the end in honour of his memory.

For

For fo I thought, I was a cave-keeper,

And cook to honeft creatures. But 'tis not fo: 'Twas but a bolt of nothing, fhot at nothing, Which the brain makes of fumes.

Our very eyes,

Are fometimes like our judgments, blind. Good faith, I tremble ftill with fear; but if there be

Yet left in heav'n as fmall a drop of pity

As a wren's eye, fear'd Gods! a part of it!
The dream's here ftill; ev'n when I wake, it is
Without me, as within me; not imagin'd, felt.
A headless man! -the
-the garments of Pofthumus?
I know the fhape of 's leg, this is his hand,
His foot mercurial, his martial thigh,

The brawns of Hercules: but his jovial face-
Murder in heaven?-how!-'tis gone!-Pi-
Janio!-

All curfes madded Hecuba gave the Greeks,
And mine to boot, be darted on thee! thou,
9 'Twas thou, confpiring with that devil Cloten,
Haft here cut off my Lord. To write, and read,
Be henceforth treach'rous!- Damn'd Pifanio
Hath with his forged letters-damn'd Pifanie!

From this the braveft veffel of the world
Struck the main-top! oh Potkumus, alas,

Where is thy head? where's that? ah me, where 's that?

Pifanio might have kill'd thee at the heart,

And left this head on. How fhould this be? Pifa

nio?

'Tis he and Cloten. Malice and lucre in them

Have laid this woe here. Oh, 'tis pregnant, pregnant! The drug he gave me, which, he faid, was precious And cordial to me, have I not found it