Of these Italian weeds, and fuit my self
As do's a Britain peafant; fo I'll fight
Against the part I come with; fo I'll die
For thee, O Imogen, for whom my life
Is every breath, a death; and thus unknown,
Pitied, nor hated, to the face of peril

My felf I'll dedicate. Let me make men know
More valour in me, than my habit's fhow;
Gods, put the ftrength o'th' Leonati in me;
To fhame the guise o'th' world, I will begin,
The fashion, lefs without, and more within.

[Exit.

Enter Lucius, Iachimo, and the Roman army at one door; and the British army at another: Leonatus Pofthumus following like a poor foldier. They march over, and go out. Then enter again in skirmish Iachimo, and Pofthumus; he vanquisheth and difarmeth Iachimo, and then leaves him.

bofom

Iach. The heaviness and guilt within my
Takes off my manhood; I've bely'd a lady,
The princess of this country; and the air on't
Revengingly enfeebles me: or could this carle,
A very drudge of nature, have subdu’d me
In my profeffion? knighthoods, honours born,
As I wear mine, are titles but of scorn;
If that thy gentry, Britain, go before
This lowt, as he exceeds our lords, the odds
Is, that we scarce are men, and you are gods.

[Exit.

The battel continues; the Britains fly, Cymbeline is taken; then enter to his rescue, Bellarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus.

Bel. Stand, stand; we have th' advantage of the ground; That lane is guarded: nothing routs us, but

The villany of our fears.

Guid. Arv. Stand, stand and fight.

Enter Pofthumus, and feconds the Britains. They rescue Cymbe-line, and exeunt.

Then enter Lucius, Iachimo, and Imogen.

Luc. Away, boy, from the troops, and save thy self;

For friends kill friends, and the disorder's fuch

As war were hood-wink'd.

Iach. 'Tis their fresh supplies.

Luc. It is a day turn'd strangely. Or betimes

Let's re-inforce, or fly.

SCENE

[Exeunt.

II.

Enter Pofthumus, and a British lord.

Lord. Cam'st thou from where they made the ftand?
Poft. I did.

Though you it seems came from the fliers.

Lord. I did.

Poft. No blame be to you, Sir, for all was loft,
But that the heavens fought: the king himself
• Of his wings deftitute, the army broken,

And but the backs of Britains feen; all flying
Through a straight lane, the enemy full-hearted,
Lolling the tongue with flaught'ring, having work.
More plentiful, than tools to do't, ftruck down

Some mortally, fome flightly touch'd, fome falling

Meerly through fear, that the straight pass was damn'd
With dead men, hurt behind; and cowards living

To die with lengthen'd fhame.

Lord. Where was this lane?.

Poft. Close by the battel, ditch'd, and wall'd with turf,

Which

Which gave advantage to an ancient foldier,
(An honest one I warrant, who deferv'd
So long a breeding as his white beard came to)
In doing this for's country. 'Thwart the lane,
He, with two striplings, (lads more like to run
The country Base, than to commit fuch flaughter,
With faces fit for masks, or rather fairer
Than those for preservation cas'd, or shame,)
Made good the paffage, cry'd to those that fled,
"Our Britains hearts die flying, not our men;
"To darkness fleet fouls that fly backwards! ftand,
"Or we are Romans, and will give you that
"Like beafts, which you fhun beaftly, and may fave
"But to look back in front: ftand, ftand
Three thousand confident, in act as many;
(For three performers are the file, when all

These three,

The rest do nothing;) with this word stand, stand,
Accommodated by the place, (more charming

With their own noblenefs, which could have turn'd
A distaff to a lance,) gilded pale looks;

Part shame; part spirit renew'd, that fome turn'd coward
But by example (oh a fin in war,

Damn'd in the first beginners) 'gan to look
The way that they did, and to grin like lions
Upon the pikes o'th' hunters. Then began
A stop i̇'th' chaser, a retire; anon

A rout, confusion thick. Forthwith they flie
Chickens, the way which they stoop'd eagles: flaves,
The ftrides the victors made; and now our cowards
Like fragments in hard voyages, became
The life o'th' need; having found the back door open
Of the unguarded hearts, heav'ns, how they wound!
Some flain before, fome dying; fome their friends

O'er

O'er-born i'th' former wave, ten chac'd by one,
Are now each one the slaughter-man of twenty;
Those that would die or-ere refift, are grown
The mortal bugs o'th' field.

Lord. This was strange chance;

A narrow lane! an old man, and two boys!

Poft. Nay, do not wonder at it; you are made

Rather to wonder at the things you hear,

Than to work any. *

Lord. Farewel, you are angry.

[Exit.

Poft. This is a lord; oh noble mifery

To be i'th' field, and ask what news, of me?

To-day, how many would have given their honours
To've fav'd their carkaffes? took heel to do't,

And yet died too. I, in mine own woe charm'd,
Could not find death where I did hear him groan,
Nor feel him where he struck. This ugly monster,
'Tis ftrange he hides him in fresh cups, foft beds,
Sweet words; or hath more minifters than we
That draw his knives in war. Well I will find him.
For being now a favourer to the Britain,

No more a Britain, I've refum'd again

The part I came in. Fight I will no more,
But yield me to the verieft hind, that shall
Once touch my shoulder. Great the flaughter is

*Than to work any.

Will you rhime upon't,

And vent it for a mockery? here is one:

"Two boys, an old man twice a boy, a lane,

"Preferv'd the Britains, was the Romans bane.

Lord. Nay, be not angry, Sir.

Poft. Lack, to what end?

Who dares not stand his foe, I'll be his friend;

For if he'll do, as he is made to do,

I know he'll quickly fly my friendship too..

You have put me into rhymes

Lord. Farewel, &c.

VOL. VI.

E e

Here

Here made by th' Roman; great the answer be,
Britains must take. For me, my ransom's death,
On either fide I come to spend my breath;
Which neither here I'll keep, nor bear again,
But end it by some means for Imogen.

Enter two Captains, and Soldiers.

1 Cap. Great Jupiter be prais'd, Lucius is taken. 'Tis thought the old man, and his fons, were angels. 2 Cap. There was a fourth man, in a filly habit, That gave th' affront with them.

1 Cap. So 'tis reported;

But none of 'em can be found. Stand, who's there?
Poft. A Roman,

Who had not now been drooping here; if seconds
Had anfwer'd him.

2 Cap. Lay hands on him; a dog,

A leg of Rome shall not return to tell

What crows have peck'd them here; he brags his service

As if he were of note; bring him to th' king.

Enter Cymbeline, Bellarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, Pifanio, and Roman captives. The captains present Pofthumus to Cymbeline, who delivers him over to a goaler.

S CEN E III.

A Prifon.

Enter Pofthumus, and two goalers.

OU fhall not now be ftoln, you've locks upon

1 Goal. You

you;

So graze, as you find pasture.

2 Goal. Ay, or stomach.

[Exeunt Goalers.

Poft.