Cymbeline

  1.Sen. This is the tenor of the Emperors Writ;That since the common men are now in Action'Gainst the Pannonians, and Dalmatians,And that the Legions now in Gallia, areFull weake to vndertake our Warres againstThe falne-off Britaines, that we do inciteThe Gentry to this businesse. He createsLucius Pro-Consull: and to you the TribunesFor this immediate Leuy, he commandsHis absolute Commission. Long liue Caesar   Tri. Is Lucius Generall of the Forces?  2.Sen. I   Tri. Remaining now in Gallia?  1.Sen. With those LegionsWhich I haue spoke of, whereunto your leuieMust be suppliant: the words of your CommissionWill tye you to the numbers, and the timeOf their dispatchTri. We will discharge our duty.Exeunt.

Actus Quartus. Scena Prima

Enter Clotten alone.

Clot I am neere to'th' place where they should meet, if Pisanio haue mapp'd it truely. How fit his Garments serue me? Why should his Mistris who was made by him that made the Taylor, not be fit too? The rather (sauing reuerence of the Word) for 'tis saide a Womans fitnesse comes by fits: therein I must play the Workman, I dare speake it to my selfe, for it is not Vainglorie for a man, and his Glasse, to confer in his owne Chamber; I meane, the Lines of my body are as well drawne as his; no lesse young, more strong, not beneath him in Fortunes, beyond him in the aduantage of the time, aboue him in Birth, alike conuersant in generall seruices, and more remarkeable in single oppositions; yet this imperseuerant Thing loues him in my despight. What Mortalitie is? Posthumus, thy head (which now is growing vppon thy shoulders) shall within this houre be off, thy Mistris inforced, thy Garments cut to peeces before thy face: and all this done, spurne her home to her Father, who may (happily) be a little angry for my so rough vsage: but my Mother hauing power of his testinesse, shall turne all into my commendations. My Horse is tyed vp safe, out Sword, and to a sore purpose: Fortune put them into my hand: This is the very description of their meeting place and the Fellow dares not deceiue me. Enter.

Scena Secunda

Enter Belarius, Guiderius, Aruiragus, and Imogen from the Caue.

  Bel. You are not well: Remaine heere in the Caue,Wee'l come to you after Hunting   Arui. Brother, stay heere:Are we not Brothers?  Imo. So man and man should be,But Clay and Clay, differs in dignitie,Whose dust is both alike. I am very sicke,  Gui. Go you to Hunting, Ile abide with him   Imo. So sicke I am not, yet I am not well:But not so Citizen a wanton, asTo seeme to dye, ere sicke: So please you, leaue me,Sticke to your Iournall course: the breach of Custome,Is breach of all. I am ill, but your being by meCannot amend me. Society, is no comfortTo one not sociable: I am not very sicke,Since I can reason of it: pray you trust me heere,Ile rob none but my selfe, and let me dyeStealing so poorely   Gui. I loue thee: I haue spoke it,How much the quantity, the waight as much,As I do loue my Father   Bel. What? How? how?  Arui. If it be sinne to say so (Sir) I yoake meeIn my good Brothers fault: I know not whyI loue this youth, and I haue heard you say,Loue's reason's, without reason. The Beere at doore,And a demand who is't shall dye, I'ld sayMy Father, not this youth   Bel. Oh noble straine!O worthinesse of Nature, breed of Greatnesse!``Cowards father Cowards, & Base things Syre Bace;``Nature hath Meale, and Bran; Contempt, and Grace.I'me not their Father, yet who this should bee,Doth myracle it selfe, lou'd before mee.'Tis the ninth houre o'th' MorneArui. Brother, farewellImo. I wish ye sportArui. You health. – So please you Sir   Imo. These are kinde Creatures.Gods, what lyes I haue heard:Our Courtiers say, all's sauage, but at Court;Experience, oh thou disproou'st Report.Th' emperious Seas breeds Monsters; for the Dish,Poore Tributary Riuers, as sweet Fish:I am sicke still, heart-sicke; Pisanio,Ile now taste of thy Drugge   Gui. I could not stirre him:He said he was gentle, but vnfortunate;Dishonestly afflicted, but yet honest   Arui. Thus did he answer me: yet said heereafter,I might know more   Bel. To'th' Field, to'th' Field:Wee'l leaue you for this time, go in, and restArui. Wee'l not be long away   Bel. Pray be not sicke,For you must be our Huswife   Imo. Well, or ill,I am bound to you.Enter.  Bel. And shal't be euer.This youth, how ere distrest, appeares he hath hadGood Ancestors   Arui. How Angell-like he sings?  Gui. But his neate Cookerie?  Arui. He cut our Rootes in Charracters,And sawc'st our Brothes, as Iuno had bin sicke,And he her Dieter   Arui. Nobly he yoakesA smiling, with a sigh; as if the sigheWas that it was, for not being such a Smile:The Smile, mocking the Sigh, that it would flyeFrom so diuine a Temple, to commixWith windes, that Saylors raile at   Gui. I do note,That greefe and patience rooted in them both,Mingle their spurres together   Arui. Grow patient,And let the stinking-Elder (Greefe) vntwineHis perishing roote, with the encreasing Vine   Bel. It is great morning. Come away: Who's there?Enter Cloten.  Clo. I cannot finde those Runnagates, that VillaineHath mock'd me. I am faint   Bel. Those Runnagates?Meanes he not vs? I partly know him, 'tisCloten, the Sonne o'th' Queene. I feare some Ambush:I saw him not these many yeares, and yetI know 'tis he: We are held as Out-Lawes: Hence   Gui. He is but one: you, and my Brother searchWhat Companies are neere: pray you away,Let me alone with him   Clot. Soft, what are youThat flye me thus? Some villaine-Mountainers?I haue heard of such. What Slaue art thou?  Gui. A thingMore slauish did I ne're, then answeringA Slaue without a knocke   Clot. Thou art a Robber,A Law-breaker, a Villaine: yeeld thee Theefe   Gui. To who? to thee? What art thou? Haue not IAn arme as bigge as thine? A heart, as bigge:Thy words I grant are bigger: for I weare notMy Dagger in my mouth. Say what thou art:Why I should yeeld to thee?  Clot. Thou Villaine base,Know'st me not by my Cloathes?  Gui. No, nor thy Taylor, Rascall:Who is thy Grandfather? He made those cloathes,Which (as it seemes) make thee   Clo. Thou precious Varlet,My Taylor made them not   Gui. Hence then, and thankeThe man that gaue them thee. Thou art some Foole,I am loath to beate thee   Clot. Thou iniurious Theefe,Heare but my name, and tremble   Gui. What's thy name?  Clo. Cloten, thou Villaine   Gui. Cloten, thou double Villaine be thy name,I cannot tremble at it, were it Toad, or Adder, Spider,'Twould moue me sooner   Clot. To thy further feare,Nay, to thy meere Confusion, thou shalt knowI am Sonne to'th' Queene   Gui. I am sorry for't: not seemingSo worthy as thy Birth   Clot. Art not afeard?  Gui. Those that I reuerence, those I feare: the Wise:At Fooles I laugh: not feare them   Clot. Dye the death:When I haue slaine thee with my proper hand,Ile follow those that euen now fled hence:And on the Gates of Luds-Towne set your heads:Yeeld Rusticke Mountaineer.Fight and Exeunt.Enter Belarius and Aruiragus.  Bel. No Companie's abroad?  Arui. None in the world: you did mistake him sure   Bel. I cannot tell: Long is it since I saw him,But Time hath nothing blurr'd those lines of FauourWhich then he wore: the snatches in his voice,And burst of speaking were as his: I am absolute'Twas very Cloten   Arui. In this place we left them;I wish my Brother make good time with him,You say he is so fell   Bel. Being scarse made vp,I meane to man; he had not apprehensionOf roaring terrors: For defect of iudgementIs oft the cause of Feare.Enter Guiderius.But see thy Brother   Gui. This Cloten was a Foole, an empty purse,There was no money in't: Not HerculesCould haue knock'd out his Braines, for he had none:Yet I not doing this, the Foole had borneMy head, as I do his   Bel. What hast thou done?  Gui. I am perfect what: cut off one Clotens head,Sonne to the Queene (after his owne report)Who call'd me Traitor, Mountaineer, and sworeWith his owne single hand heel'd take vs in,Displace our heads, where (thanks the Gods) they growAnd set them on Luds-TowneBel. We are all vndone   Gui. Why, worthy Father, what haue we to loose,But that he swore to take our Liues? the LawProtects not vs, then why should we be tender,To let an arrogant peece of flesh threat vs?Play Iudge, and Executioner, all himselfe?For we do feare the Law. What companyDiscouer you abroad?  Bel. No single souleCan we set eye on: but in all safe reasonHe must haue some Attendants. Though his HonorWas nothing but mutation, I, and thatFrom one bad thing to worse: Not Frenzie,Not absolute madnesse could so farre haue rau'dTo bring him heere alone: although perhapsIt may be heard at Court, that such as weeCaue heere, hunt heere, are Out-lawes, and in timeMay make some stronger head, the which he hearing,(As it is like him) might breake out, and sweareHeel'd fetch vs in, yet is't not probableTo come alone, either he so vndertaking,Or they so suffering: then on good ground we feare,If we do feare this Body hath a taileMore perillous then the head   Arui. Let Ord'nanceCome as the Gods fore-say it: howsoere,My Brother hath done well   Bel. I had no mindeTo hunt this day: The Boy Fideles sickenesseDid make my way long forth   Gui. With his owne Sword,Which he did waue against my throat, I haue taneHis head from him: Ile throw't into the CreekeBehinde our Rocke, and let it to the Sea,And tell the Fishes, hee's the Queenes Sonne, Cloten,That's all I reake.Enter.  Bel. I feare 'twill be reueng'd:Would (Polidore) thou had'st not done't: though valourBecomes thee well enough   Arui. Would I had done't:So the Reuenge alone pursu'de me: PolidoreI loue thee brotherly, but enuy muchThou hast robb'd me of this deed: I would ReuengesThat possible strength might meet, wold seek vs throughAnd put vs to our answer   Bel. Well, 'tis done:Wee'l hunt no more to day, nor seeke for dangerWhere there's no profit. I prythee to our Rocke,You and Fidele play the Cookes: Ile stayTill hasty Polidore returne, and bring himTo dinner presently   Arui. Poore sicke Fidele.Ile willingly to him, to gaine his colour,Il'd let a parish of such Clotens blood,And praise my selfe for charity.Enter.  Bel. Oh thou Goddesse,Thou diuine Nature; thou thy selfe thou blazon'stIn these two Princely Boyes: they are as gentleAs Zephires blowing below the Violet,Not wagging his sweet head; and yet, as rough(Their Royall blood enchaf'd) as the rud'st winde,That by the top doth take the Mountaine Pine,And make him stoope to th' Vale. 'Tis wonderThat an inuisible instinct should frame themTo Royalty vnlearn'd, Honor vntaught,Ciuility not seene from other: valourThat wildely growes in them, but yeelds a cropAs if it had beene sow'd: yet still it's strangeWhat Clotens being heere to vs portends,Or what his death will bring vs.Enter Guidereus.  Gui. Where's my Brother?I haue sent Clotens Clot-pole downe the streame,In Embassie to his Mother; his Bodie's hostageFor his returne.Solemn Musick.  Bel. My ingenuous Instrument,(Hearke Polidore) it sounds: but what occasionHath 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 MotherIt did not speake before. All solemne thingsShould 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 deadThat we haue made so much on. I had ratherHaue 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? FindeThe Ooze, to shew what Coast thy sluggish careMight'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 CheekeReposing on a Cushion   Gui. Where?  Arui. O'th' floore:His armes thus leagu'd, I thought he slept, and putMy clowted Brogues from off my feete, whose rudenesseAnswer'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 FlowersWhil'st Sommer lasts, and I liue heere, Fidele,Ile sweeten thy sad graue: thou shalt not lackeThe Flower that's like thy face. Pale-Primrose, norThe azur'd Hare-Bell, like thy Veines: no, norThe leafe of Eglantine, whom not to slander,Out-sweetned not thy breath: the Raddocke wouldWith Charitable bill (Oh bill sore shamingThose rich-left-heyres, that let their Fathers lyeWithout a Monument) bring thee all this,Yea, and furr'd Mosse besides. When Flowres are noneTo winter-ground thy Coarse-  Gui. Prythee haue done,And do not play in Wench-like words with thatWhich is so serious. Let vs bury him,And not protract with admiration, whatIs 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 voycesHaue got the mannish cracke, sing him to'th' groundAs 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 worseThen Priests, and Phanes that lyeArui. Wee'l speake it then   Bel. Great greefes I see med'cine the lesse: For ClotenIs quite forgot. He was a Queenes Sonne, Boyes,And though he came our Enemy, rememberHe was paid for that: though meane, and mighty rottingTogether haue one dust, yet Reuerence(That Angell of the world) doth make distinctionOf 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'tArui. 'Tis trueGui. Come on then, and remoue himArui. 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 dustGuid. Feare no more the Lightning flashArui. Nor th' all-dreaded ThunderstoneGui. Feare not Slander, Censure rashArui. 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 theeGuid. Ghost vnlaid forbeare theeArui. 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' nightAre strewings fit'st for Graues: vpon their Faces.You were as Flowres, now wither'd: euen soThese 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 Gods, and Goddesses!These Flowres are like the pleasures of the World;This bloody 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 faithI tremble still with feare: but if there beYet left in Heauen, as small a drop of pittieAs a Wrens eye; fear'd Gods, a part of it.The Dreame's heere still: euen when I wake it isWithout 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 ThighThe 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: thouConspir'd with that Irregulous diuell Cloten,Hath heere cut off my Lord. To write, and read,Be henceforth treacherous. Damn'd Pisanio,Hath with his forged Letters (damn'd Pisanio)From this most brauest vessell of the worldStrooke 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?'Tis he, and Cloten: Malice, and Lucre in themHaue laid this Woe heere. Oh 'tis pregnant, pregnant!The Drugge he gaue me, which hee said was preciousAnd Cordiall to me, haue I not found itMurd'rous to'th' Senses? That confirmes it home:This is Pisanio's deede, and Cloten: Oh!Giue colour to my pale cheeke with thy blood,That we the horrider may seeme to thoseWhich chance to finde vs. Oh, my Lord! my Lord!Enter Lucius, Captaines, and a Soothsayer.  Cap. To them, the Legions garrison'd in GalliaAfter your will, haue crost the Sea, attendingYou heere at Milford-Hauen, with your Shippes:They are heere in readinesse   Luc. But what from Rome?  Cap. The Senate hath stirr'd vp the Confiners,And Gentlemen of Italy, most willing Spirits,That promise Noble Seruice: and they comeVnder the Conduct of bold Iachimo,Syenna's Brother   Luc. When expect you them?  Cap. With the next benefit o'th' winde   Luc. This forwardnesseMakes our hopes faire. Command our present numbersBe muster'd: bid the Captaines looke too't. Now Sir,What haue you dream'd of late of this warres purpose   Sooth. Last night, the very Gods shew'd me a vision(I fast, and pray'd for their Intelligence) thus:I saw Ioues Bird, the Roman Eagle wing'dFrom the spungy South, to this part of the West,There vanish'd in the Sun-beames, which portends(Vnlesse my sinnes abuse my Diuination)Successe to th' Roman hoast   Luc. Dreame often so,And neuer false. Soft hoa, what truncke is heere?Without his top? The ruine speakes, that sometimeIt was a worthy building. How? a Page?Or dead, or sleeping on him? But dead rather:For Nature doth abhorre to make his bedWith the defunct, or sleepe vpon the dead.Let's see the Boyes faceCap. Hee's aliue my Lord   Luc. Hee'l then instruct vs of this body: Young one,Informe vs of thy Fortunes, for it seemesThey craue to be demanded: who is thisThou mak'st thy bloody Pillow? Or who was heThat (otherwise then noble Nature did)Hath alter'd that good Picture? What's thy interestIn this sad wracke? How came't? Who is't?What art thou?  Imo. I am nothing; or if not,Nothing to be were better: This was my Master,A very valiant Britaine, and a good,That heere by Mountaineers lyes slaine: Alas,There is no more such Masters: I may wanderFrom East to Occident, cry out for Seruice,Try many, all good: serue truly: neuerFinde such another Master   Luc. 'Lacke, good youth:Thou mou'st no lesse with thy complaining, thenThy Maister in bleeding: say his name, good Friend   Imo. Richard du Champ: If I do lye, and doNo harme by it, though the Gods heare, I hopeThey'l pardon it. Say you Sir?  Luc. Thy name?  Imo. Fidele Sir   Luc. Thou doo'st approue thy selfe the very same:Thy Name well fits thy Faith; thy Faith, thy Name:Wilt take thy chance with me? I will not sayThou shalt be so well master'd, but be sureNo lesse belou'd. The Romane Emperors LettersSent by a Consull to me, should not soonerThen thine owne worth preferre thee: Go with me   Imo. Ile follow Sir. But first, and't please the Gods,Ile hide my Master from the Flies, as deepeAs these poore Pickaxes can digge: and whenWith wild wood-leaues & weeds, I ha' strew'd his graueAnd on it said a Century of prayers(Such as I can) twice o're, Ile weepe, and sighe,And leauing so his seruice, follow you,So please you entertaine mee   Luc. I good youth,And rather Father thee, then Master thee: My Friends,The Boy hath taught vs manly duties: Let vsFinde out the prettiest Dazied-Plot we can,And make him with our Pikes and PartizansA Graue: Come, Arme him: Boy hee's preferr'dBy thee, to vs, and he shall be interr'dAs Souldiers can. Be cheerefull; wipe thine eyes,Some Falles are meanes the happier to arise.Exeunt.Scena Tertia

Enter Cymbeline, Lords, and Pisanio.

  Cym. Againe: and bring me word how 'tis with her,A Feauour with the absence of her Sonne;A madnesse, of which her life's in danger: Heauens,How deeply you at once do touch me. Imogen,The great part of my comfort, gone: My QueeneVpon a desperate bed, and in a timeWhen fearefull Warres point at me: Her Sonne gone,So needfull for this present? It strikes me, pastThe hope of comfort. But for thee, Fellow,Who needs must know of her departure, andDost seeme so ignorant, wee'l enforce it from theeBy a sharpe Torture   Pis. Sir, my life is yours,I humbly set it at your will: But for my Mistris,I nothing know where she remaines: why gone,Nor when she purposes returne. Beseech your Highnes,Hold me your loyall Seruant   Lord. Good my Liege,The day that she was missing, he was heere;I dare be bound hee's true, and shall performeAll parts of his subiection loyally. For Cloten,There wants no diligence in seeking him,And will no doubt be found   Cym. The time is troublesome:Wee'l slip you for a season, but our iealousieDo's yet depend   Lord. So please your Maiesty,The Romaine Legions, all from Gallia drawne,Are landed on your Coast, with a supplyOf Romaine Gentlemen, by the Senate sent   Cym. Now for the Counsaile of my Son and Queen,I am amaz'd with matter   Lord. Good my Liege,Your preparation can affront no lesseThen what you heare of. Come more, for more you're ready:The want is, but to put those Powres in motion,That long to moue   Cym. I thanke you: let's withdrawAnd meete the Time, as it seekes vs. We feare notWhat can from Italy annoy vs, butWe greeue at chances heere. Away.Exeunt.  Pisa. I heard no Letter from my Master, sinceI wrote him Imogen was slaine. 'Tis strange:Nor heare I from my Mistris, who did promiseTo yeeld me often tydings. Neither know IWhat is betide to Cloten, but remainePerplext in all. The Heauens still must worke:Wherein I am false, I am honest: not true, to be true.These present warres shall finde I loue my Country,Euen to the note o'th' King, or Ile fall in them:All other doubts, by time let them be cleer'd,Fortune brings in some Boats, that are not steer'd.Enter.Scena Quarta

Enter Belarius, Guiderius, & Aruiragus.

Gui. The noyse is round about vsBel. Let vs from it   Arui. What pleasure Sir, we finde in life, to locke itFrom Action, and Aduenture   Gui. Nay, what hopeHaue we in hiding vs? This way the RomainesMust, or for Britaines slay vs, or receiue vsFor barbarous and vnnaturall ReuoltsDuring their vse, and slay vs after   Bel. Sonnes,Wee'l higher to the Mountaines, there secure vs.To the Kings party there's no going: newnesseOf Clotens death (we being not knowne, nor muster'dAmong the Bands) may driue vs to a renderWhere we haue liu'd; and so extort from's thatWhich we haue done, whose answer would be deathDrawne on with Torture   Gui. This is (Sir) a doubtIn such a time, nothing becomming you,Nor satisfying vs   Arui. It is not likely,That when they heare their Roman horses neigh,Behold their quarter'd Fires; haue both their eyesAnd eares so cloyd importantly as now,That they will waste their time vpon our note,To know from whence we are   Bel. Oh, I am knowneOf many in the Army: Many yeeres(Though Cloten then but young) you see, not wore himFrom my remembrance. And besides, the KingHath not deseru'd my Seruice, nor your Loues,Who finde in my Exile, the want of Breeding;The certainty of this heard life, aye hopelesseTo haue the courtesie your Cradle promis'd,But to be still hot Summers Tanlings, andThe shrinking Slaues of Winter   Gui. Then be so,Better to cease to be. Pray Sir, to'th' Army:I, and my Brother are not knowne; your selfeSo out of thought, and thereto so ore-growne,Cannot be question'd   Arui. By this Sunne that shinesIle thither: What thing is't, that I neuerDid see man dye, scarse euer look'd on blood,But that of Coward Hares, hot Goats, and Venison?Neuer bestrid a Horse saue one, that hadA Rider like my selfe, who ne're wore Rowell,Nor Iron on his heele? I am asham'dTo looke vpon the holy Sunne, to haueThe benefit of his blest Beames, remainingSo long a poore vnknowne   Gui. By heauens Ile go,If you will blesse me Sir, and giue me leaue,Ile take the better care: but if you will not,The hazard therefore due fall on me, byThe hands of RomainesArui. So say I, Amen   Bel. No reason I (since of your liues you setSo slight a valewation) should reserueMy crack'd one to more care. Haue with you Boyes:If in your Country warres you chance to dye,That is my Bed too (Lads) and there Ile lye.Lead, lead; the time seems long, their blood thinks scornTill it flye out, and shew them Princes borne.Exeunt.