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Enter Imogen, in Boy's Clothes. Imo. I see, a man's life is a tedious one: I have tir'd myself; and for two nights together Have made the ground my bed. I should be sick, But that my resolution helps me.- Milford, When from the mountain-top Pisanio show'd thee, Thou was't within a ken: 0 Jove! I think, Foundations fly the wretched : such, I mean, Where they should be reliev'd. Two beggars told me, I could not miss my way: Will poor folks lie, That have afflictions on them; knowing 'tis A punishment, or trial? Yes; no wonder, When rich ones scarce tell true: To lapse in fulness Is sorer, than to lie for need ; and falsehood Is worse in kings, than beggars.—My dear lord ! Thou art one o' the false ones: Now I think on thee, My hunger's gone; but even before, I was At point to sink for food.—But what is this? Here is a path to it: 'Tis some savage hold: I were best not call; I dare not call: yet famine, Ere clean it o'erthrow nature, makes it valiant. Plenty, and peace, breeds cowards; hardness ever Of hardiness is mother,

A WIFE'S INNOCENCY. False to his bed! What is it, to be false? To lie in watch there, and to think on him? To weep 'twixt clock and clock? if sleep charge naTo break it with a fearful dream of him, (ture, And cry myself awake? that's false to his bed ?


No, tis slander; Whose edge is sharper than the sword; whose tongue Outvenoms all the worms of Nile; whose breath Rides on the posting winds, and doth belie All corners of the world: kings, queens, and states, Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave This vip'rous slander enters.


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 troth,

I have stolen nought; nor would not, though I had
Gold strew'd o' the floor. Here's money for my meat:
I would have left it on the board, so soon
As I had made my meal; and parted
With prayers for the provider.

Money, youth?
Arv. All gold and silver rather turn to dirt!
As 'tis no better reckon'd, but of those
Who worship dirty gods.


To who? to thee? What art thou? Have not I
An arm as big as thine ? a heart as big?
Thy words I grant, are bigger; for I wear not
My dagger in my mouth.

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Yes, sir, to Milford-Haven; Which is the way? I thank you.-By yon bush?—Pray, how far thither? 'Ods pitikins * !- can it be six miles yet? I have gone all night:-'Faith, I'll lie down and sleep. But, soft! no bedfellow :-0, gods and goddesses!

[Seeing the Body 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 cave-keeper, And cook to honest creatures : But 'tis not so; 'Twas but a boltt of nothing, shot at nothing, Which the brain makes of fumes: Our very eyes Are sometimes like our judgments, 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, fear'd gods, a part of it! The dream's here still: even when I wake, it is Without me, as within me; not imagin'd, felt. A headless man! The garments of Posthumus! I know the shape of his leg: this is his hand;

* This diminutive adjaration is derived from God's my pity, † An arrow.

His foot Mercurial; his Martial thigh;
The brawns of Hercules : but his Jovial face-
Murder in heaven?-How ?-'Tis gone.

O Posthumus! alas, where's that?
Where is thy head? where's that? Ah me!


Being scarce made up,
I mean, to man, he had not apprehension
Of roaring terrors; for the effect of judgment
Is oft the cause of fear.


O thou goddess, Thou divine nature, how thyself ihoy 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'st wind, That by the top doth take the mountain pine, And make him stoop to the vale. Tis wonderful, That an invisible instinct should frame them To royalty unlearn'd; honour untaught; Civiliiy not seen from other; valour, That wildly grows in them, but yields a crop As if it had been sow'd. Enter ARVIRAGUS, bearing Imogen, as dead, in his


Look, here he comes,
And brings the dire occasion in his arms,
Of what we blame him for!

The bird is dead,
That we have made so much on. I had rather
Have skipp'd from sixteen years of age to sixty,
To have turn'd my leaping time into a crutch,
Than have seen this.

O sweetest, fairest lily! My brother wears thee not the one half so well, As when thou grew'st thyself.

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0, melancholy!
Who ever yet could sound thy bottom? find
The ooze, to show what coast thy sluggish crare
Might easiliest harbour in ?-- Thou blessed thing!
Jove knows what man thou might'st have made ;

but I,
Thou diedst, a most rare boy, of melancholy!-
How found you him?

Starkt, as you see:
Thus smiling, as some fly bad tickled slumber,
Not as death's dart, being laugh'd at: his right cheek
Reposing on a cushion.

Where? Arv.

O'the floor; His arms thus leagu'd: I thought, he slept; and put My clouted broguess from off my feet, whose rudeness Answerd my steps too loud. Gui.

Why, he but sleeps: If he be gone, he'll make his grave a bed; With female fairies will his tomb be haunted, And worms will not come to thee. Arv.

With fairest flowers, Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, I'll sweeten thy sad grave: Thou shalt not lack The flower, that's like thy face, pale primrose; nor The azur'd hare-bell, like thy veins; no, nor The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander, Out-sweeten'd not thy breath: the ruddocks 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 furr'd moss besides, when flowers are none, To winter-ground § thy corse.

Bel. Great griefs, I see, medicine the less: for Cloten Is quite forgot. He was a queen's son, boys:





* A slow-sailing, unwieldy vessel.

+ Stiff. # Shoes plated with iron.

The red-breast.
Probably a corrupt reading, for wither round thy corse.

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