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Guid. What does he mean? fince death of my dearest mother,

It did not fpeak before. All folemn things

Should answer folemn accidents.

Re-enter ARVIRAGUS, with IMOGEN as dead, bearing her in his arms.

Bel. Look, here he comes,

And brings the dire occafion in his arms,

Of what we blame him for!

Arv. The bird is dead,

That we have made fo much on. I had rather
Have fkipp'd from fixteen years of age to fixty,
And turn'd my leaping time into a crutch,
Than have feen this.

Guid. Ofweetest, fairest lily!

My brother wears thee not the one half so well,
As when thou grew'ft thyself.

Bel. O, melancholy!

Who ever yet could found thy bottom? find

The ooze, to fhew what coaft thy fluggish crare

Might cafilieft harbour in ?—Thou blessed thing!

Jove knows what man thou might'ft have made; but I,
Thou dy'dft, a most rare boy, of melancholy!-
How found you him?

Arv.

3. A Print by Harding, engraved by Parker, published in 1785. The mouth of the cave, and the landscape, have much merit; but nothing can be faid in favour of the other parts of this print.

4. The Print in Taylor's publication, contains a figure of Imogen, which is very pleasing—and with fome few alterations, this figure of Imogen might be rendered worthy of accompanying the page of Shakespeare. The introduction of the dead fawn is a well conceived idea.

5. Cymbeline, Act 3, Sc. 4. Painted by Penny, and engraved by Walker. The artist has failed in his attempt to exprefs Shakespeare's characters.

Arv. Stark, as you fee;

Thus fmiling, as fome fly had tickled flumber,

Not as death's dart, being laugh'd at: his right check
Repofing on a cushion.

Guid. Where?

Arv. O'the floor;

His arms thus leagu'd: I thought, he slept; and put
My clouted brogues from off my feet, whofe rudeness
Anfwer'd my steps too loud.

Guid. Why, he but fleeps:

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.

Arv. With faireft flowers,

IVhile fummer lafts, and I live here, Fidele,
I'll fweeten thy fad 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 flander,
Out-fweeten'd not thy breath: the ruddock would,
With charitable bill (O bill, fore-fhaming
Thofe rich-left heirs, that let their fathers lie

Without a monument!) bring thee all this;

Yea, and furr'd mofs befides, when flowers are none,
To winter-ground thy corfe.*

Guid. Pr'ythee have done;

And do not play in wench-like words with that

Y

which

*No Poet ever more delighted in the diftribution of flowers than Shakespeare Many instances occur in many of his plays, particularly in Lear, the Tempest, in Pericles Prince of Tyre, and in the Midfummer Night's Dream-but the most charming inftances may be felected from Perdita's garland in the Winter's Tale, and from the distribution by Ophelia. Perhaps the vernal flowers which Milton ftrewed o'er Lycidas, might have been conceived from fome of the above paffages,

Which is fo ferious. Let us bury him,
And not protract with admiration, what
Is now due debt-To the grave.

Arv. Say, where fhall's lay him?

Guid. By good Euripbile, our mother.

Arv. Bet fo:

And let us, Polydore, though now our voices-
Have got the mannifh crack, fing him to the ground,

As once our mother; ufe like note, and words,
Save that Euriphile must be Fidele.

Guid. Cadwal,

I cannot fing: I'll weep and word it with thee:
For notes of forrow, out of tune, are worfe
Than priefts and fanes that lie.

Arv. We'll fpeak it then.

Bel. Great griefs, I fee, medicine the less: for Cloten

Is quite forgot. He was a queen's fon, boys;

And, though he came our enemy, remember,

He was paid for that: Though mean and mighty, rotting
Together, have one duft; yet reverence

(That angel of the world), doth make diflinction

Of place 'twixt high and low. Our foe was princely;

And though you took his life, as being our foe,

Yet bury him as a prince.

Guid. Pray you, fetch him hither.

Therfites' body is as good as Ajax,

When neither are alive.

Arv. If you'll go fetch him,

We'll fay our fong the whilft.-Brother begin.

Guid. Nay, Cadwal, we must lay his head to the east;

My father hath a reason for't.

[Exit BELLARIUS.

Arv. 'Tis true.

Guid. Come on then, and remove him.

Arv. So,-Begin.

SON G.

Guid. Fear no more the heat o' the fun,
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task haft done,

Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages:
Both golden lads and girls all muft,
As chimney-fweepers, come to duft.

Arv. Fear no more the frown o'the great,*
Thou art past the tyrant's firoke;

Care no more to cloath, and eat ;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The fceptre, learning, physic, muft
All follow this, and come to duft.

Guid. Fear no more the lightning flash,
Arv. Nor the all-dreaded thunder-fione;
Guid. Fear not flander, cenfure rafb;
Arv. Thou haft finish'd joy and moan:
Both. All lovers young, all lovers must
Confign to thee, and come to duft.

Guid. No exorcifer harm thee!
Arv. Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Guid. Ghost unlaid forbear thee!

Arv. Nothing ill come near thee!

Both. Quiet confummation have;
And renowned be thy grave!

Y 2

Re-enter

This (fays Warburton) is the topic of confolation that nature dictates to all men on these occa

"fions. The fame farewell we have over the dead body in Lucian,"

Re-enter BELLARIUS, with the Body of CLOTEN.

Guid. We have done our obfequies. Come, lay him down.

Bel. Here's a few flowers; but about midnight, more:
The herbs that have on them cold dew o' the night,
Are firewings fitt'ft for graves.-Upon their faces :·
You were as flowers, now wither'd: even fo
Thefe herb'lets shall, which we upon you strow.—
Come on, away: apart upon our knees.

The ground, that gave them first, has them again.
Their pleasure here is paft, fo is their pain.*

From this fcene, which breathes fo much the spirit and the fancy of Shakespeare, there are fome inconceivably fine points to paint from : points

*To this scene Dr. Johnson has fubjoined this note: "For the obfequies of Fidele, a fong was "written by my unhappy friend, Mr. William Collins, of Chichester, a man of uncommon learning "and abilities. I fhall give it a place at the end of the play, in honor of his memory." For the fatiffaction of my reader this fong or dirge is here given-and he will obferve how finely Collins has felt the magic of this fcene:

ASONG, Jung by GUIDERIUS and ARVIRARGUs, over FIDELE,

fuppofed to be dead.

By Mr. WILLIAM COLLINS.

I.

To fair Fidele's graffy tomb,

Soft maids, and village hinds fall bring
Each op'ning fweet, of earlieft bloom,
And rifle all the breathing fpring.

2.

No wailing ghoft fhall dare appear
To vex with fhrieks this quiet grove :

But Shepherd lads affemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.

J

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