raved To bring him here alone; although perhaps It may be heard at court that such as we Cave here, hunt here, are outlaws, and in time May make some stronger head; the which he hearing-- As it is like him--might break out, and swear He'ld fetch us in; yet is't not probable To come alone, either he so undertaking, Or they so suffering: then on good ground we fear, If we do fear this body hath a tail More perilous than the head. Let ordinance Come as the gods foresay it: howsoe'er, My brother hath done well. I had no mind To hunt this day: the boy Fidele's sickness Did make my way long forth. 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 reck. I fear 'twill be revenged: Would, Polydote, thou hadst not done't! though valour Becomes thee well enough. Would I had done't So the revenge alone pursued me! Polydore, I love thee brotherly, but envy much Thou hast robb'd me of this deed: I would revenges, That possible strength might meet, would seek us through And put us to our answer. Well, 'tis done: We'll hunt no more to-day, nor seek for danger Where there's no profit. I prithee, to our rock; You and Fidele play the cooks: I'll stay Till hasty Polydote return, and bring him To dinner presently. Poor sick Fidele! I'll weringly to him: to gain his colour I'ld let a parish of such Clotens' blood, And praise myself for charity. O thou goddess, Thou divine Nature, how thyself thou blazon'st In these two princely boys! They are as gentle As zephyrs blowing below the violet, Not wagging his sweet head; and yet as rough, Their royal blood enchafed, as the rudest wind, That by the top doth take the mountain pine, And make him stoop to the vale. 'Tis wonder That an invisible instinct should frame them To royalty unlearn'd, honour untaught, Civility not seen from other, valour That wildly grows in them, but yields a crop As if it had been sow'd. Yet still it's strange What Cloten's being here to us portends, Or what his death will bring us. 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. My ingenious instrument! Hark, Polydore, it sounds! But what occasion