Clo. I am near to the place where they should meet, if Pisanio have mapped it truly. How fit his garments serve me! Why should his mistress, who was made by him that made the tailor, not be fit too? the rather (saving reverence of the word) for 'tis said, a woman's fitness comes by fits. Therein I must play the workman. I dare speak it to myself (for it is not vain glory for a man and his glass to confer; in his own chamber, I mean), the lines of my body are as well drawn as his; no less young, more strong, not beneath him in fortunes, beyond him in the advantage of the time, above him in birth, alike conversant in general services, and more remarkable in single oppositions: yet this imperseverant thing loves him in my despite. What mortality is! Posthumus, thy head, which now is growing upon thy shoulders, shall within this hour be off; thy mistress enforced; thy garments cut to pieces before thy face; and all this done, spurn her home to her father: who may, haply, be a little angry for my so rough usage; but my mother, having power of his testiness, shall turn all into my commendations. My horse is tied up 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 deceive me. [Exit.

SCENE II. Before the Cave

Enter, from the Cave, BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, ARVIRAGUS, and IMOGEN.

Bel. You are not well [to IMOGEN]: remain here in the cave; We'll come to you after hunting.

Arv.

Brother, stay here: [To IMOGEN.

Are we not brothers?

Imo.

So man and man should be;
But clay and clay differs in dignity,
Whose dust is both alike. I am very sick.

Gui. Go you to hunting; I'll abide with him. Imo. So sick I am not;-yet I am not well: But not so citizen a wanton, as

leave me;

To seem to die ere sick. So please you,
Stick to your journal course: the breach of custom
Is breach of all. I am ill; but your being by me
Cannot amend me: society is no comfort
To one not sociable: I am not very sick,
Since I can reason of it. Pray you, trust me here;
I'll rob none but myself; and let me die,
Stealing so poorly.

Gui. I love thee; I have spoke it: How much the quantity, the weight as much, As I do love my father.

Can we set eye on; but, in all safe reason,
We must have some attendants. Though his
humour

Was nothing but mutation,-ay, and that
From one bad thing to worse,-not frenzy, not
Absolute madness, could so far have raved,
To bring him here alone. Although, perhaps,
It may be heard at court that such as we
Cave here, hunt here, are outlaws, and in time
May make some stronger head: the which he
hearing

(As it is like him) might break out, and swear
He'd fetch us in: yet is 't not probable
To come alone, either he so undertaking,
Or they so suffering: then on good ground we fear,
If we do fear this body hath a tail
More perilous than the head.

Thou divine Nature, how thyself thou blazon'st
In these two princely boys! They are as gentle
As zephyrs, blowing below the violet,
Not wagging his sweet head: and yet as rough,
Their royal blood enchafed, as the rud'st wind
That by the top doth take the mountain pine,
And make him stoop to the vale. 'Tis wonderful
That an invisible instinct should frame them
To royalty unlearned; honour untaught;
Civility not seen from other; valour,
That wildly grows in them, but yields a crop
As if it had been sowed! Yet still it's strange
What Cloten's being here to us portends;
Or what his death will bring us.

I have sent Cloten's clotpole down the stream,
In embassy to his mother: his body's hostage
For his return.
[Solemn music.
Bel. My ingenious instrument!
Hark, Polydore, it sounds! but what occasion
Hath Cadwal now to give it motion! Hark!
Gui. Is he at home?

Bel.

He went hence even now.

Gui. What does he mean? Since death of my dearest mother

It did not speak before. All solemn things
Should answer solemn accidents. The matter?
Triumphs for nothing, and lamenting toys,
Is jollity for apes, and grief for boys.
Is Cadwal mad?

Re-enter ARVIRAGUS, bearing IMOGEN, as dead, in his arms.

And brings the dire occasion in his arms, Of what we blame him for!

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 azured harebell, like thy veins; no, nor
The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander,
Out-sweetened 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 furred moss besides, when flowers are
none,

To winter-ground thy corse.

Gui.

Pr'y thee, have done;

Fear no more the lightning flash;

ARVIRAGUS.

Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;

GUIDERIUS.

Fear not slander; censure rash:

ARVIRAGUS.

Thou hast finished joy and moan:

Both.

All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust.