Read it through once

Yes Sir, to Milford-Hauen, which is the way? I thanke you: by yond bush? pray how farre thether? 'Ods pittikins: can it be sixe mile yet? I haue gone all night: 'Faith, Ile lye downe, and sleepe. But soft; no Bedfellow? Oh Gods, and Goddesses! These Flowres are like the pleasures of the World; This bloody man the care on't. I hope I dreame: For so I thought I was a Caue-keeper, And Cooke to honest Creatures. But 'tis not so: 'Twas but a bolt of nothing, shot of nothing, Which the Braine makes of Fumes. Our very eyes, Are sometimes like our Iudgements, blinde. Good faith I tremble still with feare: but if there be Yet left in Heauen, as small a drop of pittie As a Wrens eye; fear'd Gods, a part of it. The Dreame's heere still: euen when I wake it is Without me, as within me: not imagin'd, felt. A headlesse man? The Garments of Posthumus? I know the shape of's Legge: this is his Hand: His Foote Mercuriall: his martiall Thigh The brawnes of Hercules: but his Iouiall face- Murther in heauen? How? 'tis gone. Pisanio, All Curses madded Hecuba gaue the Greekes, And mine to boot, be darted on thee: thou Conspir'd with that Irregulous diuell Cloten, Hath heere cut off my Lord. To write, and read, Be henceforth treacherous. Damn'd Pisanio, Hath with his forged Letters (damn'd Pisanio) From this most brauest vessell of the world Strooke the maine top! Oh Posthumus, alas, Where is thy head? where's that? Aye me! where's that? Pisanio might haue kill'd thee at the heart, And left this head on. How should this be, Pisanio? 'Tis he, and Cloten: Malice, and Lucre in them Haue laid this Woe heere. Oh 'tis pregnant, pregnant! The Drugge he gaue me, which hee said was precious And Cordiall to me, haue I not found it Murd'rous to'th' Senses? That confirmes it home: This is Pisanio's deede, and Cloten: Oh! Giue colour to my pale cheeke with thy blood, That we the horrider may seeme to those Which chance to finde vs. Oh, my Lord! my Lord! Enter Lucius, Captaines, and a Soothsayer.