« AnteriorContinua »
To bring him here alone; although, perhaps,
It may be heard at Court, that such as we
Cave here, haunt here, are Out-laws, and in time
May make some ftronger head: the which he hearing,
(As it is like him,) might break out, and swear,
He'd fecch us in; yet is't ņot probable
To come alone, nor he so undertaking,
Nor they fo fuffering; then on good ground we fear,
If we do fear, this body hath a tail
More perilous than the head.
Arv. Let ordinance
Come, as the Gods forefay its howsoe'er,
My brother hath done well.
Bel. I had no mind
To hunt this day : the bay Fidele's ficknefs
Did make my way long forth.
Guid. With his own fword,
Which he did wave against my throat, I've ta’en
His head from him ; I'll throw't into the creek
Behind our rock ; and let it to the fea,
And tell the fishes, he's the Queen's Son Cloten.
That's all I reck,
Bel. I fear, 'twill be reveng'd :
Would, Paládour, thou hadft not don't! though va-
Becomes thee well enough.
Arv, Would I had done't,
So the revenge alone pursu'd me! Paladour,
I love thee brotherly, but envy much,
Thou'st robb'd me of this deed; I would, Revenges,
That possible ftrength might meet, would feek us thro',
And put us to our answer,
Bel. Well, 'tis done:
We'll hunt no more to day, nor seek for danger
Where there's no profit. 'Pr’ythee, to our rock,
You and Fidele play the cooks: I'll stay
'Till hasty Paladour return, and bring him
To dinner presently.
Arv. Poor fick Fidele!
I'll willingly to him: To gain his colour,
I'd let a parish of such Clotens blood,
And praile my self for charity.
Bei. O thou Goddels, :;:
Thou divine Nacure! how thy self 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'ft wind,
That by the top doth take the mountain pine,
And make him stoop to th?vale.?Tis wonderful,
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 Þeen sow'd. Yet ftill it's strange
What Cloten’s being here to us portends,
Or what his death will bring us.
Guid. Where's my Brother?
Į have sent Cloten's clot-pole down the stream,
In embassic to his mother; his body's hostage
For his Return
Bel. My ingenious Instrument !
Hark, Paladour! it sounds : but what occasion
Hath Cadwall now to give it 'motion? hark!
Guid. Is he at home?
Bel. He went hence even now.
Guid, What does he mean? Since death of my dear'!
It did not speak before. All solemn things
Should answer folemn accidents. The matter?
Triumphs for nothing, and lamenting toys,
Is jollity for a pes, and grief for boys.
Is Cadwall mad?
Enter Aryįragus, with Imogen dead, bearing her
in his arms.
Bel. Look, here he comes !
and brings the dire occafon, in his arms,
What we blame him for.
Aru. The bird is dead,
That we have made so much on! I had rather
Have skipt from fixteen years of age, to fixty;
And turn’d my leaping time into a crutch,
Than have feen this.
Guid. Oh sweetest, fairest lilly!
My Brother wears. thee not one half so well,
As when thou grew'st thy self.
Bel. (44) Oh melancholy !
Who ever yet could found thy bottom ? find
The ooze, to sew what coast thy fluggish Carrack
Might eas'lieft harbour in?—thou blessed thing!
Fove knows, what man thou might'st have made; but
Thou dy'dít, a most rare boy, of melancholy!
How found you him?
Arv. Stark, as you
Thus smiling, as some fly had tickled slumber;
Not as Death's dart being laughd at: his right check
Reposing on a cushion,
(44) Ob, Melanchah!
Who ever yet could found thy Bottom? find
The Ooze, to sew what Coast thy Nuggish Care
Might eas'lief harbour in ?] But as plausible as This at firft Sight may seem, all Those, who know any Thing of good Writing, will agree That our Author must have wrote;
to her what Coaft thy Juggis Carrack
Might eas'lieft harbour in?
Carrack is a flow, heavy-built, Veffel of Burthen. This restores the U.
niformity of the Metaphor, compleats the Sense, and is a Word of great
Propriety and Beauty to design a melancholic Perfon.
The Word is usłd again by our Author in his Othello ;
Faith, be to night bath boarded a land Carrack ;
If it prove lawful Prize, he's made for ever.
And We meet with it likewise in Beaumont and Fletcher ;
But here's the Wonder, thi' their Weight would fink
A Spanish Carrack, without other Ballaft, &c.
Carraca, Navis oneraria ingens,
SKINNER. Carraque, Navis ampliffima.
Aru. O'th' floor:
His arms thus leagu'd; I thought, he sept; and put
My cloured brogues from off my feet, whose rudenes
Answer'd my steps too loud.
Guid. Why, he bat 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 near thee.
Aru. With faireft flow'rs,
(Whilst summer lafts, and I live here, Fideles)
I'll sweeten 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-sweet'n'd not thy breath. (45) The Raddock would,
With charitable bill, (oh bill, fore thaming
Those rich-left heirs, that let their fathers lye
Without a Monument !) bring thee all this;
Yea, and furr'd niofs besides, when flow'rs are done
To winter-gown thy coarse.
Guid. Prythee, 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.
Arv. Say, where fhall's lay him?
Guid. By good Euriphile, our Mother,
Arv. Be't fo :
And let us, Paladour, though now our voices
Have got the mannish crack, fing him to th' ground;
The Radock would,
With charitable Bill
, bring thee all this ;
Yea, and furt'd Moss befides. When Flow'rs are none
To winter-ground thy Courle] Here, again, the Metaphor is ftrangely mangled. What Sense is there in winter grounding a Coarse with Moss? A Coarse might indeed be said to be winter-grounded in good thick Clay. But the Epithet furr'd to Moss directs us plainly to another Reading
To Winter-gown thy Coarse. i. e. Thy Summer Habit ihall be a light Gown of Flowers, thy Winter Habit a good warm furr'd Gown of Moss,
As, once, our Mother: ùfe like note, and words,
Save that Euriphile must be Fidele.
I cannot sing : I'll weep, and word it with thee
; For notes of forcow, out of tune, are worse Than Priests and Fanes that lie.
Arv. We'll fpeak it then.
Bel. Great griefs, I see, med cine the lefs. För Cloten Is quite forgot. He was a Queen's Song Boys, And though he came our enemy, remember, Was paid for that : the mean and mighty, rotring Together, have one dust ; yet reverence, (That angel of the world,) doth make diftinction Of place 'twixt high and low. Oar foc was prinčely, And though you took his life, as being our foe, Yet bury himas 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 say our Song the whilft: Brother, begin.
Guid. Nay, Cadwall, we must lay his head to the My Father hath a teason for’s.
Arv. 'Tis trye.
Guid. Come on then, and remove him.
Arv. So, begin.
S ON N G.
Guid. Fear no more the heat o'lk' Sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages ;
Thou Tho worldly task haft done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages.
Golden lads and girls all muft,
As chimney sweepers, come to duft.
Arv. Fear no more the frown o'th' Great,
Thou art past the tyrant's ftroke ;
Care no more to cloath and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak: