Aro. O'the floor; His arms thus leagu'd: I thought, he slept; and put My clouted brogues from off my feet, whose rudeness Answer'd my steps too loud. Gui. Why, he but sleeps: If he be gone, he'll make his grave a bed; With fairest flowers, Arv.. 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 ruddock" 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. Gui. Pr'ythee, have done; And do not play in wench-like words with that And not protract with admiration what Is now due debt.-To the grave. Arv. Say, where shall's lay him? Be't so: Gui. By good Euriphile, our mother. And let us, Polydore, though now our voices Have got the mannish crack, sing him to the ground, As once our mother; use like note, and words, Gui. Cadwal, I cannot sing: I'll weep, and word it with thee: Than priests and fanes that lie. Arv. We'll speak it then. Bel. Great griefs, I see, medicine the less: for Cloten Is quite forgot. He was a queen's son, boys; And, though he came our enemy, remember, He was paid for that: Though mean and mighty, rotting Together, have one dust; yet reverence, (That angel of the world,) doth make distinction Pray you, fetch him hither. Gui. When neither are alive. Arc, If you'll go fetch him, [Exit Belarius. We'll say our song the whilst.-Brother, begin. Gui. Nay, Cadwal, we must lay his head to the east; My father hath a reason for't. Arv. "Tis true. Gui. Come on then, and remove him. Arv. So,-Begin. SONG. Gui. Fear no more the heat o'the sun, Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages: Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. Arv. Fear no more the frown o'the great Thou art past the tyrant's stroke; Care no more to clothe, and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak: The scepter, learning, physick, must All follow this, and come to dust. Gui. Fear no more the lightning-flash, Arv. Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; Gui. Fear not slander, censure rash; Arv. Thou hast finish'd joy and moan: Both. All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee 52, and come to dust. Gui. No exorciser harm thee! And renowned be thy grave! |