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I'th' Cave, there, on the Brow, their thoughts do hit
ther, And every day do honour to her Grave; My self Belarius, that am Morgan call'd, They take for natural father. The game's up. [Exit. And so the Grammar and Syntax of the Sentence is compleat. We call the Arching of a Cavern, or Overhanging of a Hill, metaphorically, the Brow; and in like manner the Greeks and Latines used oepus, and Supercilium.
(32) This Polydore,] Tho' the Name be several times writ thus in the Old Books, I am persuaded it is not as the Author intended. It is a Compound purely Greek, without the Turn or Foundation of a British Name. The first Time this Name is mention'd in both the old Folio's, it is written Paladour, as I have reform'd the Text; be cause this, as well as Cadwal, is of the British Caft. What Pala in the first Name, or Wal in the other, may fignify, I am not deep enough in Cambrian to know, but dour, or dhür, means profluens aque; as Câd, does, Caput.
Enter Pisanio, and Imogen.
Pif. Please you, read;
my bed : the testimonies whereof lye bleeding in me. I Speak not out of weak surmises, but from proof as strong as my grief, and as certain as I expezt my rea venge. That part thou, Pisanio, must act for me, if thy faith be not tainted with the breach of hers; let thine own hands take away her life: I shall give thee opportunity at Milford-Haven. She hath my letter for the purpose ; where, if thou fear to Arike, and to make me certain it is done, thou art the Pander to her dishono?', and equally to me disloyal.
Pis. What shall I need to draw my sword ?
sword ? the paper Hath cuc her throat already. —No, 'tis flander; Whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose tongue Out-venoms all the worms of Nile ; whose breath Rides on the posting winds, and doth belye All corners of the world. Kings, Queens, and states, Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the Grave This viperous flander enters. What chear, madam?
Imo. False to his bed! what is it to be false? To lye in watch there, and to think on him? To weep 'twixt clock and clock ? if sleep charge
nature, To break it with a fearful dream of him, And cry my self awake ? that false to's bed!
Pif. Alas, good lady!
Imo. I false? thy conscience witness, Iachimo, Thou did'st accuse him of incontinency, Thou then lookd’st like a villain ; now, methinks, Thy favour's good enough. Some Jay of Italy (33) (Whose mother was her painting) hath betray'd him ; (33)
Some 1 ay of Italy (Whole Mother was ber Painting) hath betray'd bim.) This Passage has strongly lain under my Suspicion, tho' I have not ventur’d to give it an Emendation. If the Text be genuine as it ftands, it seems to me to have this Sense, whose Mother was a Bird of the fame Feather ; i. e. such another gay Strumpet : which is severe enough. I have imagin’d, the Poet might have wrote ;
(Whose Mother was ber planting) i. e. was Bawd to her, and planted her on Pofthumus : which is ftill more sarcastical. Again, Mr. Rowe gives us a Reading, which I fhould very eagerly espouse, were I sure the Word were standard, and that it were not coin'd by the casual Inversion of into a W:
(Whose Wother was her Painting) i. e. whose chief Beauty was her artificial Face, her false Complexion. For Mr. Gildon, in his short Gloflary prefixd to Shakespeare's Poems, comes and boldly tells us, Wother fignifies Merit, Beauty, &c. , But I shrewdly suspect, he struck out these Interpretations to sort with the Sense of the Reading he found in Mr. Rowe; and trusted implicitly to his Theme being genuine. But I have search'd in vain, and can find no such word as Wother. SPEL MAN in his Glossary has pf (i. e. Woth) which he expounds, Eloquentia, facundia, cloquence. But this, I am afraid, in no kind will serve our Turn.
Poor I am ftale, a garment out of fashion ;
Pif. Madam, hear me
Pil. Hence, vile instrument!
Imo. Why, I muft die;
i come, here's my heart (Something's afore’t soft, foft, we'll no de
[Opening her breast. Obedient as ühe scabbard! What is here? The Scriptures of the loyal Leonatus All turn'd to Heresie? away, a way,
[Puiling his letters out of her bolom. Vôl. VI.
shall no more
Pif. () gracious lady!
Imo. Do't, and to bed then.
Imo. Ah, wherefore then
Pis But to win time
lino. Talk thy tongue weary, speak.