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The herbs, that have on them cold dew o'the night,
(Exeunt Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus. Imo. ( Awaking ] Yes, sir, to Milford-Ilaven;
Which is the way? I thank you.-By yon bush?—Pray, how far thither! 'Ods pittikins* !-can it be six miles yet? I have gone all night:-'Faitli, I'll lie down and
sleep But, soft! no bed fellow:-0, gods and goddesses !
[Seeing the body.
eye, fear'd gods, a part of it!
* This diminutive adjuration is derived from God's my pity. t.An arrow.
A face like Jove's.
Conspir’d with that irregulous* devil, Eloten,
that? Pisanio might have kiWd thee at the heart, And left this head on How should this be? Pisa
nio? "Tis lie, and Cloten: malice and lucre in them Have laid this woe liere, 0, 'tis pregoant, pregnantt! The drug he gave me, which, he said, was precious Aud cordial to me, have I not found it Murd'rous to the senses? That confirms it home: This is Pisanio's deed, and Cloten's: 0! Give colour to my pale cheek with thy bloody That we the horrider may seem to those Which chance to find us; 0; my lord, my lord!,
Enter Lucius, a Captain and other officers, and a
Soothsayer. Cap. To them the legions garrison'd-in Gallia, After your will, have eross'd the sea; attending, You here at Milford-Haven, witis your shius: They are here in readines. Luc.
But what from Rome? Cap. The senate hath stirr'd up the cónfiuers, And gentlemen of Italy; most willing spirits, That promise poble service: and they come Under the conduct of bold Iachimo, Sicona's brother. Luc.
When expect you them? Cap. With the next benefit o'the wind. Luc.
* Lawless, licentious.
Makes our hopes fair. Command, our present numbers Be muster'd; bid the captains look to't.-Now, sir, What have you dream'd, of late, of this war's pur
pose ? Sooth. Last night the very gods show'd me a
vision : (I fast, and pray'd, for their intelligence,) Thus:I saw Jove's bird, the Roman eagle, wing'd From the spongy south to this part of the west, There vanish'd in the sunbeams: which portends (Unless my sins abuse my divination), Success to the Roman host. Luc.
Dream often so, And never false.--Soft, ho! what trunk is here, Without his top? The ruin speaks, that sometime It was a worthy building.--How! a page! Or dead, or sleeping on him? But dead, rather : For nature doth abhor to make his bed With the defunct, or sleep upon the dead. Let's see the boy's face. Сар.
He is alive, my lord. Luc. 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 he, That, otherwise than noble nature did, Hath alter'd that good picture? What's thy interest In this sad wreck? How came it? Who is it? What art thou? Imo.
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 are no more such masters: I may wander From east to occidente, cry out for service, Try many, all good, serve truly, never Find such another master.
• The west.
'Lack, good youth! Thou mov'st no less with thy complaining, than Thy master in bleeding: Say his name, good friend.
Imo. Richard du Champ. If I do lie, and do No harm by it, though the gods hear, I hope
[Aside. They'll pardon it. Say you, sir? Luc.
Imo. I'll follow, sir. But first, an't please the gods,
Ay, good youth;
. Her fingers.
A room in Cymbeline's palace.
Enter Cymbeline, Lords, and Pisanio. Cym. Again; and bring me word, bow 'tis with ber. A fever with the absence of her son ; A madness, of which her life's iu danger:- Heavens, How deeply you at once dp touch me! Imogen, The great part of my comfort, gone: my queen Upon a desperate bed; and in a time When fearful wars point at me; her son gone, So needful for this present: It strikes me, past The hope of comfort. But for thee, fellow, Who needs must know of her departure, and Dost seem so ignorant, we'll enforce it from thee By a sharp torture. Pis.
Sir, my life is yours, I hunibly set it at your will; But, for my mistress, I nothing know where she remains, why gone, Nor when she purposes return. 'Beseech your highes
Good my liege,
The time's troublesome: We'll slip you for a season; but our jealousy
[To Pisanio. Does yet depend. 1 Lord.
So please your majesty, The Roman legions, all from Gallia drawn,