I wish my brother make good time with him,
You say he is so fell.

Bel.
Being scarce made up,
I mean, to man, he had not apprehension
Of roaring terrors, for defect of judgment,
As oft the cause of fear: But see, thy brother.

Re-enter GUIDERIUS, with CLOTEN's head.

Gui. This Cloten was a fool; an empty purse,— There was no money in 't: not Hercules

Could have knock'd out his brains, for he had none : Yet I not doing this, the fool had borne

My head, as I do his.

Bel.

What hast thou done?

Gui. I am perfect, what: cut off one Cloten's head, Son to the queen, after his own report;

Who call'd me traitor, mountaineer; and swore,
With his own single hand he 'd take us in,

Displace our heads, where (thank the gods!) they grow,

And set them on Lud's town.

Bel.

We are all undone.

Gui. Why, worthy father, what have we to lose,
But, that he swore to take, our lives? The law
Protects not us: Then why should we be tender
To let an arrogant piece of flesh threat us;
Play judge and executioner, all himself,
For we do fear the law? What company
Discover you abroad?

Bel.

No single soul

Can we set eye on, but in all safe reason

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 rav'd,
To bring him here alone: Although, perhaps,
It may be heard at court, that such as we
Cave here, hunt here, are outlaws, and in time
a For, in the sense of because.

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

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.

Arv.
Come as the gods foresay it: howsoe'er,
My brother hath done well.

Let ordinance

I had no mind

With his own sword,

Bel.
To hunt this day: the boy Fidele's sickness
Did make my way long forth.

Gui.
Which he did wave against my throat, I have ta'en
His head from him: I'll throw 't into the creek
Behind our rock; and let it to the sea,
And tell the fishes he 's the queen's son, Cloten:
That's all I reck.

Bel.

I fear, 't will be reveng'd:

[Exit.

'Would, Polydore, thou hadst not done 't! though valour Becomes thee well enough.

'Would I had done 't,

Arv.
So the revenge alone pursued me !—Polydore,

I love thee brotherly; but envy much

Thou hast robb'd me of this deed: I would revenges,
That possible strength might meet, would seek us through
And put us to our answer.

Bel.
Well, 't is done :-
We'll hunt no more to-day, nor seek for danger
Where there's no profit. I prithee, to our rock;
You and Fidele play the cooks: I'll stay
Till hasty Polydore return, and bring him
To dinner presently.

Arv.

Poor sick Fidele !

I'll willingly to him: To gain his colour,
I'd let a parish of such Clotens blood.
And praise myself for charity.

[Exit.

Bel.

O thou goddess,

Thou divine Nature, how thyself thou blazon'st:
In these two princely boys! They are as gentle
As zephyrs, blowing below the violet,

Not wagging his sweet head and yet as rough,
Their royal blood enchaf'd, as the rud'st wind,
That by the top doth take the mountain pine
And make him stoop to the vale. T is wonder
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
What Cloten's being here to us portends,
Or what his death will bring us.

Gui.

Re-enter GUIDERIUS.

Where's my brother?

I have sent Cloten's clotpoll down the stream,
In embassy to his mother; his body 's hostage
For his return.

[Solemn music.

Bel.
My ingenious instrument!
Hark, Polydore, it sounds! But what occasion
Hath Cadwal now to give it motion? Hark!
Gui. Is he at home?

Bel.

He went hence even now

Gui. What does he mean? since death of my dear'st

mother

It did not speak before. All solemn things

Should answer solemn accidents. The matter?
Triumphs for nothing, and lamenting toys,

Is jollity for apes and grief for boys.

Is Cadwal mad?

Re-enter ARVIRAGUS, bearing IMOGEN as dead in

Bel.

his arms.

Look, here he comes,

And brings the dire occasion in his arms,

Of what we blame him for!

Arv.

The bird is dead,

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 a
Might easiliest harbour in?—Thou blessed thing!
Jove knows what man thou mightst 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 leagued: I thought he slept; and put
My clouted brogues from off my feet, whose rudeness
Answer'd my steps too loud.

Gui.
Why, he but sleeps:
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 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
The azur'd hare-bell, like thy veins; no, nor
The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander,
Outsweeten'd not thy breath: the ruddock would,

Crare is a small vessel; and the word is often used by Holinshed and by Drayton.

b Stark-stiff.

• Brogues-rude shoes.

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.

Gui.

Prithee, have done; And do not play in wench-like words with that Which is so serious. Let us bury him,

And not protract with admiration what

Is now due debt.-To the grave.

Arv.

Say, where shall 's lay him?

Gui. By good Euriphile, our mother.
Arv.

Be 't so:

And let us, Polydore, though now our voices
Have got the mannish crack, sing him to the ground,
As once our mother; use like note, and words,
Save that Euriphile must be Fidele.

Gui. Cadwal,

I cannot sing: I'll weep, and word it with thee:
For notes of sorrow, out of tune, are worse

Than priests and fanes that lie.

Arv.

We'll speak it then. 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.
Thersites' body is as good as Ajax,
When neither are alive.

Arv.

Pray you, fetch him hither.

If you'll go fetch him,

We'll say our song the whilst.-Brother, begin. [Ex. BEL. Gui. Nay, Cadwal, we must lay his head to the east: My father hath a reason for 't.