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Now, sir, What have you dreamed of late of this war’s purpose?

Now, sir,
What have you dreamed of late of this war’s purpose?
Last night the very gods showed me a vision—
I fast and prayed for their intelligence—thus:
I saw Jove’s bird, the Roman eagle, winged
From the spongy south to this part of the west,
There vanished in the sunbeams, which portends—
Unless my sins abuse my divination—
Success to th’ Roman host.

My friends,
The boy hath taught us manly duties.

Dream often so,
And never false.—Soft, ho, what trunk is here
Without his top? The ruin speaks that sometime
It was a worthy building. How, a page?
Or dead or sleeping on him? But dead rather,
For nature doth abhor to make his bed
With the defunct or sleep upon the dead.
Let’s see the boy’s face.
He’s alive, my lord.
He’ll then instruct us of this body.—Young one,
Inform us of thy fortunes, for it seems
They crave to be demanded. Who is this
Thou mak’st thy bloody pillow? Or who was he
That, otherwise than noble nature did,
Hath altered that good picture? What’s thy interest
In this sad wrack? How came ’t? Who is ’t?
What art thou?
Imogen, as Fidele
I am nothing; or if not,
Nothing to be were better. This was my master,
A very valiant Briton, and a good,
That here by mountaineers lies slain. Alas,
There is no more such masters. I may wander
From east to occident, cry out for service,
Try many, all good, serve truly, never
Find such another master.
’Lack, good youth,
Thou mov’st no less with thy complaining than
Thy master in bleeding. Say his name, good friend.
Imogen, as Fidele
Richard du Champ.  Aside. If I do lie and do
No harm by it, though the gods hear, I hope
They’ll pardon it.—Say you, sir?
Thy name?
Imogen, as Fidele
Fidele, sir.
Thou dost approve thyself the very same;
Thy name well fits thy faith, thy faith thy name.
Wilt take thy chance with me? I will not say
Thou shalt be so well mastered, but be sure
No less beloved. The Roman Emperor’s letters
Sent by a consul to me should not sooner
Than thine own worth prefer thee. Go with me.
Imogen, as Fidele
I’ll follow, sir. But first, an ’t please the gods,
I’ll hide my master from the flies as deep
As these poor pickaxes can dig; and when
With wild-wood leaves and weeds I ha’ strewed his grave
And on it said a century of prayers,
Such as I can, twice o’er, I’ll weep and sigh,
And leaving so his service, follow you,
So please you entertain me.
Ay, good youth,
And rather father thee than master thee.—My friends,
The boy hath taught us manly duties. Let us
Find out the prettiest daisied plot we can,
And make him with our pikes and partisans
A grave. Come, arm him.—Boy, he’s preferred
By thee to us, and he shall be interred
As soldiers can. Be cheerful; wipe thine eyes.
Some falls are means the happier to arise.
 They exit, the Soldiers carrying Cloten’s body

Act 4
Scene 2
Line 420

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