Whose edge is sharper than the sword; whose tongue All corners of the world: kings, queens, and states, SCENE. Before the Cave of Belarius. Enter Imogen, in Boy's Clothes. Imo. I see a man's life is a tedious one: When from the mountain-top Pisanio show'd thee, Where they should be relieved. Two beggars told me, That have afflictions on them; knowing 'tis J A punishment or trial? Yes; no wonder, When rich ones scarce tell true: to lapse in fulness Is worse in kings than beggars.-My dear lord! At point to sink for food.-But what is this? I were best not call; I dare not call: yet famine, Gui. Fear no more the heat o' the sun, Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages; As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. Arv. Fear no more the frown o' the great, Care no more to clothe and eat; Gui. Fear no more the lightning-flash, Both. All lovers young, all lovers must Gui. No exorcisor harm thee! Arv. Nor no witchcraft charm thee! And renowned be thy grave. IN-BORN ROYALTY. O thou goddess, Thou divine nature, how thyself thou blazon'st Not wagging his sweet head: and yet as rough, That wildly grows in them, but yields a crop * Judgment. † Seal the same contract. A ROUTED ARMY. No blame be to you, sir; for all was lost, I, in mine own woe charm'd, Could not find death where I did hear him groan; Nor feel him where he struck: being an ugly monster, "Tis strange, he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds, Sweet words; or hath more ministers than we That draw his knives i' the war. IMOGEN AWAKING. Yes, sir, to Milford-Haven ; Which is the way? I thank you. By yon bush ?-Pray, how far thither? 'Ods pettikins! *-can it be six miles yet? I have gone all night:-'faith, I'll lie down and sleep. But, soft! no bedfellow :-0, gods and goddesses! [Seeing the body. These flowers are like the pleasures of the world; And cook to honest creatures: but 'tis not so; Yet left in heaven as small a drop of pity As a wren's eye, fear'd gods, a part of it! The dream's here still: even when I wake, it is HAMLET. MORNING. But, look, the morn, in russet mantle clad, REAL GRIEF. Seems, madam! nay, it is; I know not seems. "Tis not alone, my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black, *This diminutive adjuration is derived from God's my pity. |