ARVIRAGUS.
The bird is dead
That we have made so much on. I had rather
Have skipp’d from sixteen years of age to sixty,
To have turn’d my leaping time into a crutch,
Than have seen this.
GUIDERIUS.
O sweetest, fairest lily!
My brother wears thee not the one half so well
As when thou grew’st thyself.
BELARIUS.
O melancholy!
Who ever yet could sound thy bottom? find
The ooze to show what coast thy sluggish crare
Might’st easiliest harbour in? Thou blessed thing!
Jove knows what man thou mightst have made; but I,
Thou diedst, a most rare boy, of melancholy.
How found you him?
ARVIRAGUS.
Stark, as you see;
Thus smiling, as some fly had tickled slumber,
Not as death’s dart, being laugh’d at; his right cheek
Reposing on a cushion.
GUIDERIUS.
Where?
ARVIRAGUS.
O’ th’ floor;
His arms thus leagu’d. I thought he slept, and put
My clouted brogues from off my feet, whose rudeness
Answer’d my steps too loud.
GUIDERIUS.
Why, he but sleeps.
If he be gone he’ll make his grave a bed;
With female fairies will his tomb be haunted,
And worms will not come to thee.
ARVIRAGUS.
With fairest flowers,
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 azur’d hare-bell, like thy veins; no, nor
The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander,
Out-sweet’ned 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 furr’d moss besides, when flow’rs are none,
To winter-ground thy corse—
GUIDERIUS.
Prithee have done,
And do not play in wench-like words with that
Which is so serious. Let us bury him,
And not protract with admiration what
Is now due debt. To th’ grave.
ARVIRAGUS.
Say, where shall’s lay him?