Bush, flowers

Cymbeline, [4.2.292-303]. Imogen. “Yes, sir, to Milford-Haven; which is the way?/ I thank you. By yond bush? Pray, how far thither?/ Ods pittikins! Can it be six mile yet?/ I have gone all night. Faith, I’ll lie down and sleep./ But soft, no bedfellow? O gods and godesses!/ These flow’rs are like the pleasures of the world;/ This bloody man, the care on ‘t. I hope I dream;/ For so I thought I was a cave-keeper,/ And cook to honest creatures. But ’tis not so;/ ‘Twas a bolt of nothing, shot at noghting,/ Which the brain makes of fumes. Our very eyes/ Are sometimes like our judgments, blind.”

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