Imatges de pàgina
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Aru. With faireft flowers,

Whilft fummer lasts, and I live here, Fidele,
I'll fweeten thy fad grave. Thou shalt not lack
The flower that's like thy face, pale Primrose; nor
The azured Hare-bell, like thy veins; no, nor
The leaf of Eglantine: which not to flander,
Out-fweetened not thy breath. (45) The Raddock
would,

With charitable bill, (oh bill, fore-fhaming
Those rich-left heirs, that let their fathers ly
Without a monument!) bring thee all this;
Yea, and furred mofs befides, when flowers are none,
To winter-gown thy corfe.--

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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 protract with admiration what
Is now due debt.---To th' grave.

Aru. Say, where thall's lay him!
Guid. By good Euriphile, our mother..
Arv. Be't io:

And let us, Paladour, though now our voices
Have not the mannifh crack, fing him to the ground,
As, once, our mother: ufe like note, and words,
Save that Euriphile must be Fidele.

(45)

The Raddock would,

With charitable bill, bring thee all this;

Yea, and furred mols befides. When flowers are none

To winter-ground thy corfe-] Here again the metaphor is ftrangely mangled. What fenfe is there in winter-grounding a corfe with mofs? A corfe might indeed be faid to be winter-grounded in good thick clay. But the epithet furred to mofs directs us plainly to another reading;

To winter-gown thy corfe:

i. e. Thy fummer habit fhall be a light gown of flower, thy winter habit a good warm furred gown of mofs.

Mr Warburton.

Guid. Cadwall,

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 lie.

Arv. We'll speak it then.

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

Is quite forgot. He was a Queen's fon, boys;
And though he came our enemy, remember,
Was paid for that: the mean and mighty, rotting-
Together, have one duft; yet reverence,

(That angel of the world) doth make distinction
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 whilit: Brother, begin.

Guid. Nay, Cadwall, we must lay his head to the

My father had a reason for't.

Arv. 'Tis true.

Guid. Come on then, and remove him.

[Eaft;

Arv. So, begin.

SONG.

Guid. Fear no more the heat o' the fun,
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly taik haft done,

Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages.
Golden lads and girls all muft,

As chimney-fweepers, come to duft.
Arv. Fear no more the frown o' th' great,
Thou art past thy tyrant's ftroke;

Care no more to clothe and eat;

To thee the reed is as the oak:

The fceptre, learning, phyfic, muft
All follow this, and come to duft.
Guid. Fear no more the lightning-flash.

Arv. Nor th' all-dreaded thunder-ftone.
Guid. Fear no flander, cenfure rafh.

Arv. Thou haft finished joy and moan.
Both. All lovers young, all lovers, must
Confign to thee, and come to dust.
Guid. No exorcifer harm thee!

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

Enter BELARIUS, with the Body of Cloten.

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

Bel. Here's a few flowers, but about midnight

more;

The herbs, that have on them cold dew o' th' night,
Are ftrewings fitteft for graves.---Upon their faces---
You were as flowers, now withered; even fo
These 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 past, so is their pain. [Exeunt.

IMOGEN, awaking.

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 mile yet?--

I've gone all night-'faith, I'll ly down and fleep. But, foft! no bedfellow.---Oh gods, and goddeffes! [Seeing the Body

Thefe flowers are like the pleafures of the world;
This bloody man the care on't.---I hope I dream;
For, fure, I thought I was a cave-keeper,

And ceok 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 still with fear; (46) but if there be
Yet left in Heaven as small a drop of pity
As a wren's eye, oh 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 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--

(46)—but if there be

Yet left in Heaven as fmall a drop of pity
As a wren's eye, ob, Gods! a part of it!]

So again, in Othello;

I fhould have found in fome place of my foul
A drop of patience

Though this expreffion is very pathetic and fine in both thefe
places of our Author, it brings to my mind a very humorous
paffage in the Acharrenfes of Ariftophanes. An Athenian

ruftic, in the time of war, is robbed of a yoke of oxen by the Bootians; he has almost cried his eyes out, he says, for the lofs of his cattle; and he comes to beg for a drop of peace in a quill, to anoint his eyes with.

Σὺ δ ̓ ἀλλὰ μοι σαλαγμὸν εἰρήνης ἕνα

Εἰς τὸν καλαμίσκον ἐντάλαξον τυτονί.

Though I have translated xaxauloxov (which is a diminutive from xahaμos) a quill, I know it fignifies among the furgeons a probe, an inftrument to convey balfam into wounds; fpecilium. I am furprifed that neither Hefychius nor Suidas acknowledge the word, which has fo- good an authority as Ariftophanes.--But Julius Pollux quotes it, and brings the paffage from our comic poet in con fimation.

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Murder in heaven?---how!---'tis gone!--Pisanio!---
All curfes madded Hecuba gave the Greeks,
And mine to boot, be darted on thee! thou,
'Twas thou, confpiring with that devil Cloten,
Haft here cut off my Lord. To write and read
Be henceforth treacherous !---Damned Pifanio
Hath with his forged letters---damned Pifanio!---
From this the bravest veffel of the world

Struck the main-top! oh, Pofthumus, alas,
Where is thy head? where's that? ah me, where's
that?

Pifanio might have killed thee at the heart,

And left thy head on. How should this be, Pifanio?--'Tis he and Cloten. Malice and lucre in them Have laid this woe here. Oh, 'tis pregnant, preg

nant!

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The drug he gave me, which, he faid, was precious
And cordial to me, have I not found it
Murd'rous to th' fenfes? that confirms it home:
This is Pifanio's deed, and Cloten's. Oh!
Give colour to my pale cheek with thy blood,
That we the horrider may feem to thofe
Which chance to find us. Oh, my Lord! my

Lord!

Enter LUCIUS, Captains, and a Soothsayer. Cap. to them, the legions garrifoned in Gallia, After your will, have crofled the fea, attending You here at Milford-Haven, with your fhips: They are in readiness.

Luc. But what from Rome?

Cap. The Senate hath stirred up the confiners,
And gentlemen of Italy, moft willing spirits,
That promife noble fervice: and they come
Under the conduct of bold [achimo,
Syenna's brother.

Luc. When expect you them?
VOL. X.

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