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?
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.