GUIDERIUS.
By good Euriphile, our mother.
ARVIRAGUS.
Be’t so;
And let us, Polydore, though now our voices
Have got the mannish crack, sing him to th’ ground,
As once to our mother; use like note and words,
Save that Euriphile must be Fidele.
GUIDERIUS.
Cadwal,
I cannot sing. I’ll weep, and word it with thee;
For notes of sorrow out of tune are worse
Than priests and fanes that lie.
ARVIRAGUS.
We’ll speak it, then.
BELARIUS.
Great griefs, I see, med’cine the less, for Cloten
Is quite forgot. He was a queen’s son, boys;
And though he came our enemy, remember
He was paid for that. Though mean and mighty rotting
Together have one dust, yet reverence,
That angel of the world, doth make distinction
Of place ’tween high and low. Our foe was princely;
And though you took his life, as being our foe,
Yet bury him as a prince.
GUIDERIUS.
Pray you fetch him hither.
Thersites’ body is as good as Ajax’,
When neither are alive.
ARVIRAGUS.
If you’ll go fetch him,
We’ll say our song the whilst. Brother, begin.
[Exit Belarius.]
GUIDERIUS.
Nay, Cadwal, we must lay his head to th’ East;
My father hath a reason for’t.
ARVIRAGUS.
’Tis true.