Why, he but sleeps!

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.

Prithee, have done,
And do not play in wench-like words with that
Which is so serious.

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.
Arviragus, as Cadwal
Say, where shall ’s lay him?
Guiderius, as Polydor
By good Euriphile, our mother.
Arviragus, as Cadwal
Be ’t so.
And let us, Polydor, though now our voices
Have got the mannish crack, sing him to th’ ground
As once to our mother; use like note and words,
Save that “Euriphile” must be “Fidele.”
Guiderius, as Polydor
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.