Tree, bough, fruit, leaves

Cymbeline, [3.3.55-64]. Belarius. “O boys, this story/ With Roman swords, and my report was once/ First with the blest of note. Cymbeline lov’d me,/ And when a soldier was the theme, my name/ Was not far off. Then was I as a tree/ Whose boughs did bend with fruit. But in one night,/ A storm a robbery, call it what you will,/ Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves,/ And left me bare to weather.”

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