GUIDERIUS

Hail Heaven. Fear no more the heat of the Sun, Nor the furious Winter's rages, Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and taken thy wages. Golden Lads, and Girls all must, As Chimney-Sweepers come to dust. Fear no more the Lightning flash. No Exorcis r harm thee, Ghost unlaid forbear thee. And our good his. Out of your proof you speak: we poor unfledged Have never winged from view of the nest; nor knows not What Air's from home. Haply this life is best, (If quiet life be best) sweeter to you That have a sharper known. Well corresponding With your stiff Age; but unto us, it is A Cell of Ignorance: travailing a bed, A Prison, or a Debtor, that not dares To stride a limit. Uncertain favour. I am thoroughly weary. There is cold meat in the Cave, we'll brouz on that Whilst what we have killed, be Cooked. What's the matter, Sir? Money? Youth. Were you a woman, youth, I should woo hard, but be your Groom in honesty: I bid for you, as I do buy. Would I could free't. Pray draw near. Go you to Hunting, I'll abide with him. I love thee: I have spoke it, How much the quantity, the weight as much, As I do love my Father. I could not stir him: He said he was gentle, but unfortunate; Dishonestly afflicted, but yet honest. But his neat Cookery? I do note, That grief and patience rooted in them both, Mingle their spurs together. He is but one: you, and my Brother search What Companies are near: pray you away, Let me alone with him. A thing. More slavish did I never, then answering A Slave without a knock. To who? to thee? What art thou? Have not I And arm as big as thine? A heart, as big: Thy words I grant are bigger: for I wear not My Dagger in my mouth. Say what thou art: Why I should yield to thee? No, nor thy Taylor, Rascal: Who is thy Grandfather? He made those clothes, Which (as it seems) make thee. Hence then, and thank The man that gave them thee. Thou art some Fool, I am loath to beat thee. What's thy name? Cloten, thou double Villain be thy name, I cannot tremble at it, were it Toad, or Adder, Spider, 'Twould move me sooner. I am sorry for it: not seeming So worthy as thy Birth. Those that I reverence, those I fear: the Wise: At Fools I laugh: not fear them. This Cloten was a Fool, and empty purse, There was no money in't: Not Hercules Could have knocked out his Brains, for he had none: Yet I not doing this, the Fool had born My head, as I do his. I am perfect what: cut off one Clotens head, Son to the Queen (after his own report) Who called me Traitor, Mountaineer, and swore With his own single hand heeled take us in, Displace our heads, where (thanks the Gods) they grow And set them on Luds-Towne. Why, worthy Father, what have we to lose, But that he swore to take, our Lives? the Law Protects not us, then why should we be tender, To let and arrogant piece of flesh threat us? Play Judge, and Executioner, all himself? For we do fear the Law. What company Discover you abroad? With his own Sword, Which he did wave against my throat, I have taken His head from him: I'll throw it into the Creek Behind our Rock, and let it to the Sea, And tell the Fish, he's the Queens Son, Cloten, That's all I reak. Where's my Brother? I have sent Clotens Clot-pole down the stream, In Embassy to his Mother; his Body's hostage For his return. Is he at home? 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 Cadwall mad? O sweetest, fairest Lily: My Brother wears thee not the one half so well, As when thou grewest thy self. Where? 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. 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 endue debt. To the graven. By good Euriphile, our Mother. Cadwall, I cannot sing: I'll weep, and word it with thee; For Notes of sorrow, out of tune, are worse Then Priests, and Phanes that lie. Pray you fetch him hither, Thersites body is as good as Ajax, When neither are alive. Nay Cadwall, we must lay his head to the East, My Father hath a reason for it. Come on then, and remove him. Fear not Slander, Censure rash. We have done our obsequies: Come lay him down. The noise is round about us. Nay, what hope Have we in hiding us? This way the Romans Must, or for Britain's slay us or receive us For barbarous and unnatural Revolts During their use, and slay us after. This is (Sir) a doubt In such a time, nothing becoming you, Nor satisfying us. Then be so, Better to cease to be. Pray Sir, to the Army: I, and my Brother are not known; your self So out of thought, and thereto so overgrown, Cannot be questioned. By heavens I'll go, If you will bless me Sir, and give me leave, I'll take the better care: but if you will not, The hazard therefore endue fallen on me, by The hands of Romans. The same dead thing alive. But we see him dead. This is sure Fidele. Let me end the Story: I slew him there. I have spoke it, and I did it. A most incivil one. The wrongs he did me Were nothing Princelike; for he did provoke me With Language that would make me spurn the Sea, If it could so roar to me. I cut off's head, And am right glad he is not standing here To tell this tale of mine. And at first meeting loved, Continued so, until we thought he died.