The Complete Works of William Shakespeare · William Shakespeare
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GUIDERIUS. _ Fear no more the heat o’ th’ sun, Nor the furious winter’s rages; 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._ ARVIRAGUS. _ Fear no more the frown o’ th’ great; Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke. Care no more to clothe and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak. The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this and come to dust._ GUIDERIUS. _ Fear no more the lightning flash._ ARVIRAGUS. _ Nor th’ all-dreaded thunder-stone._ GUIDERIUS. _ Fear not slander, censure rash;_ ARVIRAGUS. _ Thou hast finish’d joy and moan._ BOTH. _ All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee and come to dust._ GUIDERIUS. _ No exorciser harm thee!_ ARVIRAGUS. _ Nor no witchcraft charm thee!_ GUIDERIUS. _ Ghost unlaid forbear thee!_ ARVIRAGUS. _ Nothing ill come near thee!_ BOTH. _ Quiet consummation have, And renowned be thy grave!_ Enter Belarius with the body of Cloten. GUIDERIUS. We have done our obsequies. Come, lay him down. BELARIUS. Here’s a few flowers; but ’bout midnight, more. The herbs that have on them cold dew o’ th’ night Are strewings fit’st for graves. Upon their faces. You were as flow’rs, now wither’d. Even so These herblets shall which we upon you strew. Come on, away. Apart upon our knees. The ground that gave them first has them again. Their pleasures here are past, so is their pain.
CAPTAIN. He’s alive, my lord. LUCIUS. He’ll then instruct us of this body. Young one, Inform us of thy fortunes; for it seems They crave to be demanded. Who is this Thou mak’st thy bloody pillow? Or who was he That, otherwise than noble nature did, Hath alter’d that good picture? What’s thy interest In this sad wreck? How came’t? Who is’t? What art thou? IMOGEN. I am nothing; or if not, Nothing to be were better. This was my master, A very valiant Briton and a good, That here by mountaineers lies slain. Alas! There is no more such masters. I may wander From east to occident; cry out for service; Try many, all good; serve truly; never Find such another master. LUCIUS. ’Lack, good youth! Thou mov’st no less with thy complaining than Thy master in bleeding. Say his name, good friend. IMOGEN. Richard du Champ. [_Aside._] If I do lie, and do No harm by it, though the gods hear, I hope They’ll pardon it.—Say you, sir? LUCIUS. Thy name? IMOGEN. Fidele, sir. LUCIUS. Thou dost approve thyself the very same; Thy name well fits thy faith, thy faith thy name. Wilt take thy chance with me? I will not say Thou shalt be so well master’d; but, be sure, No less belov’d. The Roman Emperor’s letters, Sent by a consul to me, should not sooner Than thine own worth prefer thee. Go with me.
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.