Solemn Musick.

Bel. My ingenuous Instrument, (Hearke Polidore) it sounds: but what occasion Hath Cadwal now to giue it motion? Hearke

Gui. Is he at home?

Bel. He went hence euen now

Gui. What does he meane?

Since death of my deer'st Mother It did not speake before. All solemne things Should answer solemne Accidents. The matter?

Triumphes for nothing, and lamenting Toyes, Is iollity for Apes, and greefe for Boyes.

Is Cadwall mad?

Enter Aruiragus, with Imogen dead, bearing her in his Armes.

Bel. Looke, heere he comes, And brings the dire occasion in his Armes, Of what we blame him for

Arui. The Bird is dead That we haue made so much on. I had rather Haue skipt from sixteene yeares of Age, to sixty: To haue turn'd my leaping time into a Crutch, Then haue seene this

Gui. Oh sweetest, fayrest Lilly: My Brother weares thee not the one halfe so well, As when thou grew'st thy selfe

Bel. Oh Melancholly, Who euer yet could sound thy bottome? Finde The Ooze, to shew what Coast thy sluggish care Might'st easilest harbour in. Thou blessed thing, Ioue knowes what man thou might'st haue made: but I, Thou dyed'st a most rare Boy, of Melancholly.

How found you him?

Arui. Starke, as you see: Thus smiling, as some Fly had tickled slumber, Not as deaths dart being laugh'd at: his right Cheeke Reposing on a Cushion

Gui. Where?

Arui. O'th' floore: His armes thus leagu'd, I thought he slept, and put My clowted Brogues from off my feete, whose rudenesse Answer'd my steps too lowd

Gui. Why, he but sleepes: If he be gone, hee'l make his Graue, a Bed: With female Fayries will his Tombe be haunted, And Wormes will not come to thee

Arui. With fayrest Flowers Whil'st Sommer lasts, and I liue heere, Fidele, Ile sweeten thy sad graue: thou shalt not lacke The Flower that's like thy face. Pale-Primrose, nor The azur'd Hare-Bell, like thy Veines: no, nor The leafe of Eglantine, whom not to slander, Out-sweetned not thy breath: the Raddocke would With Charitable bill (Oh bill sore shaming Those rich-left-heyres, that let their Fathers lye Without a Monument) bring thee all this, Yea, and furr'd Mosse besides. When Flowres are none To winter-ground thy Coa.r.s.e- Gui. Prythee haue done, And do not play in Wench-like words with that Which is so serious. Let vs bury him, And not protract with admiration, what Is now due debt. To'th' graue

Arui. Say, where shall's lay him?

Gui. By good Euriphile, our Mother

Arui. Bee't so: And let vs (Polidore) though now our voyces Haue got the mannish cracke, sing him to'th' ground As once to our Mother: vse like note, and words, Saue that Euriphile, must be Fidele

Gui. Cadwall, I cannot sing: Ile weepe, and word it with thee; For Notes of sorrow, out of tune, are worse Then Priests, and Phanes that lye

Arui. Wee'l speake it then

Bel. Great greefes I see med'cine the lesse: For Cloten Is quite forgot. He was a Queenes Sonne, Boyes, And though he came our Enemy, remember He was paid for that: though meane, and mighty rotting Together haue one dust, yet Reuerence (That Angell of the world) doth make distinction Of place 'tweene high, and low. Our Foe was Princely, And though you tooke his life, as being our Foe, Yet bury him, as a Prince

Gui. Pray you fetch him hither, Thersites body is as good as Aiax, When neyther are aliue

Arui. If you'l go fetch him, Wee'l say our Song the whil'st: Brother begin

Gui. Nay Cadwall, we must lay his head to th' East, My Father hath a reason for't

Arui. 'Tis true

Gui. Come on then, and remoue him

Arui. So, begin.

SONG.

Guid. Feare no more the heate o'th' Sun, Nor the furious Winters rages, Thou thy worldly task hast don, Home art gon, and tane thy wages.

Golden Lads, and Girles all must, As Chimney-Sweepers come to dust

Arui. Feare no more the frowne o'th' Great, Thou art past the Tirants stroake, Care no more to cloath and eate, To thee the Reede is as the Oake: The Scepter, Learning, Physicke must, All follow this and come to dust

Guid. Feare no more the Lightning flash

Arui. Nor th' all-dreaded Thunderstone

Gui. Feare not Slander, Censure rash

Arui. Thou hast finish'd Ioy and mone

Both. All Louers young, all Louers must, Consigne to thee and come to dust

Guid. No Exorcisor harme thee, Arui. Nor no witch-craft charme thee

Guid. Ghost vnlaid forbeare thee

Arui. Nothing ill come neere thee

Both. Quiet consumation haue, And renowned be thy graue.

Enter Belarius with the body of Cloten.

Gui. We haue done our obsequies: Come lay him downe

Bel. Heere's a few Flowres, but 'bout midnight more: The hearbes that haue on them cold dew o'th' night Are strewings fit'st for Graues: vpon their Faces.

You were as Flowres, now wither'd: euen so These Herbelets shall, which we vpon you strew.

Come on, away, apart vpon our knees: The ground that gaue them first, ha's them againe: Their pleasures here are past, so are their paine.

Exeunt.

Imogen awakes.

Yes Sir, to Milford-Hauen, which is the way?

I thanke you: by yond bush? pray how farre thether?

'Ods pittikins: can it be sixe mile yet?

I haue gone all night: 'Faith, Ile lye downe, and sleepe.

But soft; no Bedfellow? Oh G.o.ds, and G.o.ddesses!

These Flowres are like the pleasures of the World; This b.l.o.o.d.y man the care on't. I hope I dreame: For so I thought I was a Caue-keeper, And Cooke to honest Creatures. But 'tis not so: 'Twas but a bolt of nothing, shot of nothing, Which the Braine makes of Fumes. Our very eyes, Are sometimes like our Iudgements, blinde. Good faith I tremble still with feare: but if there be Yet left in Heauen, as small a drop of pittie As a Wrens eye; fear'd G.o.ds, a part of it.

The Dreame's heere still: euen when I wake it is Without me, as within me: not imagin'd, felt.

A headlesse man? The Garments of Posthumus?

I know the shape of's Legge: this is his Hand: His Foote Mercuriall: his martiall Thigh The brawnes of Hercules: but his Iouiall face- Murther in heauen? How? 'tis gone. Pisanio, All Curses madded Hecuba gaue the Greekes, And mine to boot, be darted on thee: thou Conspir'd with that Irregulous diuell Cloten, Hath heere cut off my Lord. To write, and read, Be henceforth treacherous. d.a.m.n'd Pisanio, Hath with his forged Letters (d.a.m.n'd Pisanio) From this most brauest vessell of the world Strooke the maine top! Oh Posthumus, alas, Where is thy head? where's that? Aye me! where's that?

Pisanio might haue kill'd thee at the heart, And left this head on. How should this be, Pisanio?