The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander

Outsweetened 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 furred moss besides, when flowers are none,

To winter-gown thy corpse.

GUIDERIUS

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 th’ grave.

ARVIRAGUS

Say, where shall ’s lay him?

GUIDERIUS

By good Euriphile, our mother.

ARVIRAGUS

Be’t SO,

And let us, Polydore, though now our voices

Have got the mannish crack, sing him to th’ ground

As once our mother; use like note and words,

Save that ‘Euriphile’ must be ‘Fidele’.

GUIDERIUS 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.

ARVIRAGUS

We’ll speak it then.

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

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.

GUIDERIUS

Pray you, fetch him hither.

Thersites’ body is as good as Ajax’

When neither are alive.

ARVIRAGUS (to Belarius) If you’ll go fetch him,

We’ll say our song the whilst.

Exit Belarius

Brother, begin.

GUIDERIUS

Nay, Cadwal, we must lay his head to th’east.

My father hath a reason for’t.

ARVIRAGUS

’Tis true.

GUIDERIUS

Come on, then, and remove him.

ARVIRAGUS

So, begin.

GUIDERIUS

Fear no more the heat o‘th’ 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.

ARVIRAGUS

Fear no more the frown o’th’ great,

Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke.

Care no more to clothe and eat,

To thee the reed is as the oak.

The sceptre, learning, physic, must

All follow this and come to dust.

GUIDERIUS

Fear no more the lightning flash,

ARVIRAGUS Nor th’all-dreaded thunder-stone.

GUIDERIUS

Fear not slander, censure rash.

ARVIRAGUS Thou hast finished joy and moan.

GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS

All lovers young, all lovers must

Consign to thee and come to dust.

GUIDERIUS

No exorcisor harm thee,

ARVIRAGUS

Nor no witchcraft charm thee.

GUIDERIUS

Ghost unlaid forbear thee.

ARVIRAGUS

Nothing ill come near thee.

GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS

Quiet consummation have,

And renowned be thy grave.

Enter Belarius with the body of Cloten in Posthumus’ suit

GUIDERIUS

We have done our obsequies. Come, lay him down.

BELARIUS

Here’s a few flowers, but ‘bout midnight more;

The herbs that have on them cold dew o’th’ night

Are strewings fitt‘st for graves upon th’earth’s face.

You were as flowers, now withered; even so

These herblets shall, which we upon you strow.

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.

Exeunt Belarius, Arviragus, and Guiderius

INNOGEN (awakes)

Yes, sir, to Milford Haven. Which is the way?

I thank you. By yon bush? Pray, how far thither?

‘Od’s pitykins, can it be six mile yet?

I have gone all night. ’Faith, I’ll lie down and sleep.

She sees Cloten

But soft, no bedfellow! O gods and goddesses!

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 cavekeeper,

And cook to honest creatures. But ‘tis not so.

’Twas but a bolt of nothing, shot of nothing,

Which the brain makes of fumes. Our very eyes

Are sometimes like our judgements, 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, feared gods, a part of it!

The dream’s here still. Even when I wake it is

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-

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,

Hath here cut off my lord. To write and read

Be henceforth treacherous! Damned Pisanio

Hath with his forged letters-damned Pisanio-

From this most bravest vessel of the world

Struck the main-top) O Posthumus, alas,