I have sent Cloten’s clotpole down the stream

Guiderius, as Polydor
I have sent Cloten’s clotpole down the stream
In embassy to his mother. His body’s hostage
For his return.
 Solemn music.
Belarius, as Morgan
My ingenious instrument!
Hark, Polydor, it sounds! But what occasion
Hath Cadwal now to give it motion? Hark.

With fairest flowers,
Whilst summer lasts and I live here, Fidele,
I’ll sweeten thy sad grave.

Guiderius, as Polydor
Is he at home?
Belarius, as Morgan
He went hence even now.
Guiderius, as Polydor
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?
 Enter Arviragus as Cadwal, with Imogen as dead, bearing her in his arms.
Belarius, as Morgan
Look, here he comes,
And brings the dire occasion in his arms
Of what we blame him for.
Arviragus, as Cadwal
The bird is dead
That we have made so much on. I had rather
Have skipped from sixteen years of age to sixty,
To have turned my leaping time into a crutch,
Than have seen this.
Guiderius, as Polydor
O sweetest, fairest lily!
My brother wears thee not the one half so well
As when thou grew’st thyself.
Belarius, as Morgan
O melancholy,
Whoever yet could sound thy bottom, find
The ooze, to show what coast thy sluggish crare
Might eas’liest harbor in?—Thou blessèd thing,
Jove knows what man thou mightst have made; but I,
Thou died’st, a most rare boy, of melancholy.—
How found you him?
Arviragus, as Cadwal
Stark, as you see;
Thus smiling, as some fly had tickled slumber,
Not as Death’s dart being laughed at; his right cheek
Reposing on a cushion.
Guiderius, as Polydor
Where?
Arviragus, as Cadwal
O’ th’ floor,
His arms thus leagued. I thought he slept, and put
My clouted brogues from off my feet, whose rudeness
Answered my steps too loud.
Guiderius, as Polydor
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, as Cadwal
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 azured harebell, like thy veins; no, nor
The leaf of eglantine whom, not to slander,
Out-sweetened 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 furred moss besides, when flowers are none
To winter-ground thy corse.
Guiderius, as Polydor
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.