And at first meeting loved;
Continued so, until we thought he died.

And our good his.

A most incivil one: the wrongs he did me
Were nothing prince-like; 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 ...

I have spoke it, and I did it.

Let me end the story:
I slew him there.

This is, sure, Fidele.

But we saw him dead.

The same dead thing alive.

Stand, stand, and fight!

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 due fall on me by
The hands of Romans!

Than be so
Better to cease to be. Pray, sir, to the army:
I and my brother are not known; yourself
So out of thought, and thereto so o'ergrown,
Cannot be question'd.

This is, sir, a doubt
In such a time nothing becoming you,
Nor satisfying us.

Nay, what hope
Have we in hiding us? This way, the Romans
Must or for Britons slay us, or receive us
For barbarous and unnatural revolts
During their use, and slay us after.

The noise is round about us.

We have done our obsequies: come, lay him down.

Quiet consummation have;
And renowned be thy grave!

Ghost unlaid forbear thee!

No exorciser harm thee!

All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.

Fear not slander, censure rash;

Fear no more the lightning flash,

Fear no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages:
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Come on then, and remove him.

Nay, Cadwal, we must lay his head to the east;
My father hath a reason for't.

Pray You, fetch him hither.
Thersites' body is as good as Ajax',
When neither are alive.

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.

By good Euriphile, our mother.

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 the grave!

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.

Where?

O sweetest, fairest lily!
My brother wears thee not the one half so well
As when thou grew'st thyself.

What does he mean? since death of my dear'st 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 Cadwal mad?

Is he at home?

Where's my brother?
I have sent Cloten's clotpoll down the stream,
In embassy to his mother: his body's hostage
For his return.

With his own sword,
Which he did wave against my throat, I have ta'en
His head from him: I'll throw't into the creek
Behind our rock; and let it to the sea,
And tell the fishes he's the queen's son, Cloten:
That's all I ...

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 an arrogant piece of flesh threat us,
Play judge and executioner all himself,
For we do fear the law? What company ...

I am perfect what: cut off one Cloten's head,
Son to the queen, after his own report;
Who call'd me traitor, mountaineer, and swore
With his own single hand he'ld take us in
Displace our heads where--thank the gods!--they grow,
And set them on Lud's-town.

This Cloten was a fool, an empty purse;
There was no money in't: not Hercules
Could have knock'd out his brains, for he had none:
Yet I not doing this, the fool had borne
My head as I do his.

Those that I reverence those I fear, the wise:
At fools I laugh, not fear them.

I am sorry for 't; not seeming
So worthy as thy birth.

Cloten, thou double villain, be thy name,
I cannot tremble at it: were it Toad, or
Adder, Spider,
'Twould move me sooner.

What's thy name?

Hence, then, and thank
The man that gave them thee. Thou art some fool;
I am loath to beat thee.

No, nor thy tailor, rascal,
Who is thy grandfather: he made those clothes,
Which, as it seems, make thee.

To who? to thee? What art thou? Have not I
An 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?

A thing
More slavish did I ne'er than answering
A slave without a knock.

He is but one: you and my brother search
What companies are near: pray you, away;
Let me alone with him.

I do note
That grief and patience, rooted in him both,
Mingle their spurs together.

But his neat cookery! he cut our roots
In characters,
And sauced our broths, as Juno had been sick
And he her dieter.

I could not stir him:
He said he was gentle, but unfortunate;
Dishonestly afflicted, but yet honest.