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(15) Wearinefs Can fnore upon the flint, when refty floth Finds the down pillow hard.
Imo. (16) Good masters, harm me not; Before I enter'd here, I call'd; and thought.
To have begg'd, or bought, what I have took; good
I have ftol'n nought, nor would not, though I had found
Gold ftrew'd i'th'floor.
Here's money for my meat,
Guid. Money, youth!
Arv. All gold and filver rather turn to dirt!
ACT IV. SCENE III.
(17) To whom? to thee? What art thou? Have not I
(15) Weariness, &c.] See Hen. IV. 2d part, Act 1. Sc. 2.
(16) Good mafters, &c.] See As you like it, Act 2. Sc. 8. where Orlando, like Imogen, diftreft for food, humbly and pathetically addreffes himself to the duke and his company.
-Turn away my face!
(17) To whom, &c.]
An arm as big as thine? a heart as big?
SCENE IV. Fool Hardiness.
-Being scarce made up,
I mean to man; he had not apprehenfion
-O, thou goddess,
Thou divine nature; how thyself thou blazon'st
Not wagging his fweet head; and yet, as rough
Enter Arviragus, with Imogen dead, bearing her in his Arms.
Bel. Look, here he comes,
And brings the dire occasion in his arms,
So dreadfully, but that I thought myself
Philafter, A& 1.
(18) Cure, Oxford editor, vuig. caufe. Mr. Theobald reads,
Of what we blame him for!
Arv. The bird is dead
That we have made fo much on. I had rather
Guid. Oh, fweeteft, fairest lilly!
Bel. Oh, melancholy,
Who ever yet
(19) Thy fluggish care,] Mr. Warburton tells us, plaufible as this reading at first fight may feem, all those who know any thing of good writing, will agree that our author malt have wrote,
To fhew what coaft thy fluggish carrack
Carrack, is a flow, heavy-built veffel of burden. To this conjec ture, Mr. Theobald, and the Oxford editor, yield up Shakespear's word, and admit carrack in the text. I with, for my own fake, 1 could be fatisfied with it, as by not being fo, 1 muit neceffarily incur he critic's cenfure of knowing nothing of good writing; how ever, I must confefs, the word immediately founds to me not like Shakespear's: and whatever propriety there may be in it,' according to Mr. Warburton, to design a melancholy perfon,' I can by no means think it our author's: a much more natural word, (was there need of alteration) perhaps many readers would have thought bark: yet that, nor any other feems neceffary to the fenfe and beauty of the paffage. Oh, melancholy, (thou deep fea) who ever yet could found thy bottom? who ever yet could find the ooze, to fhew what coaft thy sluggish care (or charge) might eas'lieft harbour in?' Melancholy is reprefented unto us under the allegory of a deep fea, and the grief or affiliction that occafions the falling into melancholy, is beautifully fuppofed its fluggish care, its burden or charge failing over that fea, and feeking fome harbour to land, i. e. to get free from the waters of melancholy: which the poet, by a beautiful interrogation, acquaints us, cannot be done: when once forrow en.barks, and grief launches her heavy-leden veffel in the ocean of melancholy, no bottom is to be found, no harbour to be made, no deliverance to be obtained from this fathomlefs and boundless fea.This ap
Might eas'lieft harbour in? Thou blessed thing!
Arv. Stark, as you
Thus fmiling as fome fly had tickled flumber;
Arv. O'th' floor:
His arms thus leagu'd, I thought he flept, and put My clotted 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;
Arv. With faireft flowers,
Whilft fummer lasts, and I live here, Fidele,
* * *
pears to me the true, and, I think, exquifitely fine fenfe of the paffage the reader will be the best judge, ftill remembering if poffible, we fhould elevate our ideas to thofe of our author, and not correct him to a level with our own apprehenfions when we cannot enter into his fpirit: my attempt, at leaft upon this confideration, will be excufed, and (if I am mistaken) my mistakes obtain a pardon.
(20) Winter-ground.] Mr. Warburton difpleafed at this would read Winter-gown: the reading in the text makes good sense, and, is, I think, therefore to be preferred.
Bel. Great griefs I fee med'cine the lefs. For Cloten Is quite forgot. He was a queen's son, boys, And though he came our enemy, remember He was paid for that: the mean, and mighty, rotting Together, have one duft, yet-(21) reverence, The 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 thee, fetch him hither. Therfites' body is as good as Ajax, When neither are alive.
Guid. Fear no more the heat o'th' fun,
Yes, Sir, to Milford-Haven, which is the way?I thank you-by yond bush-pray, how far thither?— "Ods pitíkins-can it be fix miles yet?
(21) Reverence.] See the paffage on Ceremony, in Henry V.