ARV. So fay I; Amen.

BEL. No reafon I, fince on your lives you fet So flight a valuation, fhould reserve

My crack'd one to more care. Have with you, boys: If in your country wars you chance to die,

That is my bed too, lads, and there I'll lie:

Lead, lead. The time feems long; their blood thinks

fcorn,

Till it fly out, and show them princes born.

ACT V

[Afide. [Exeunt.

SCENE I. A Field between the British and Roman Camps. Enter POSTHUMUS, with a bloody handkerchief.

POST. Yea, bloody cloth, I'll keep thee; for I wish'd
Thou fhould't be colour'd thus. You married ones,
If each of you would take this courfe, how many
Muft murder wives much better than themfelves,
For wrying but a little?-O, Pifanio!

Every good fervant does not all commands:
No bond, but to do juft ones.-Gods! if you
Should have ta'en vengeance on my faults, I never
Had liv'd to put on this: fo had you faved
The noble Imogen to repent; and struck

Me, wretch, more worth your vengeance. But, alack,
You fnatch fome hence for little faults; that's love,
To have them fall no more: you fome permit
To fecond ills with ills, each elder worfe;
And make them dread it to the doer's thrift.

But Imogen is your own: Do your beft wills,

And make me blefs'd to obey !I am brought hither
Among the Italian gentry, and to fight
Against my lady's kingdom: 'Tis enough

I i iiij

That, Britain, I have kill'd thy mistress; peace!
I'll give no wound to thee. Therefore, good heavens,
Hear patiently my purpose: I'll disrobe me
Of thefe Italian weeds, and fuit myself

As does a Briton peafant: fo I'll fight
Against the
part I come with; fo I'll die
For thee, O Imogen, even for whom my life
Is, every breath, a death: and thus, unknown,
Pitied nor hated, to the face of peril

Myfelf I'll dedicate. Let me make men know
More valour in me than my habits show.
Gods, put the ftrenth o' the Leonati in me!
To fhame the guife o' the world, I will begin
The fashion, lefs without, and more within.

SCENE II. The fame.

[Exit.

Enter at one fide, LUCIUS, IACHIMO, and the Roman army; at the other fide, the British army; LEONATUS POSTHUMUS following it, like a poor foldier. They march over, and go out. Alarums. Then enter again, in skirmish, IACHIMO and POSTHUMUS: he vanquisheth and difarmeth IACHIMO, and then leaves him.

IACH. The heavinefs and guilt within my bofom
Takes off my manhood: I have belied a lady,
The princess of this country, and the air on't
Revengingly enfeebles me; Or could this carl,
A very drudge of nature's, have fubdu'd me,
In my profeífion? Knighthoods and honours, borne
As I wear mine, are titles but of fcorn.
If that thy gentry, Britain, go before

This lout, as he exceeds our lords, the odds

Is, that we scarce are men, and you are gods.

[Exit.

The battle continues; the Britons fly; GYMBELINE is ta

ken: then enter, to his rescue, BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS,

and ARVIRAGUS.

BEL. Stand, ftand! We have the advantage of the The lane is guarded: nothing routs us, but

The villainy of our fears.

GUI. ARV. Stand, ftand, and fight!

[ground;

Enter POSTHUMUS, and feconds the Britons: They rescue CYMBELINE, and exeunt. Then, enter Lucius, IACH

IMO, and IMOGEN.

Luc. Away, boy, from the troops, and fave thyself: For friends kill friends, and the diforder's fuch As war were hood-wink'd.

LACH. 'Tis their fresh fupplies.

Luc. It is a day turn'd strangely: Or betimes Let's re-enforce, or fly.

SCENE III. Another part of the Field.

Enter POSTHUMUS and a British LORD.

LORD. Cam'st thou from where they made the ftand? POST. I did:

Though you, it seems, come from the fliers.

LORD. I did.

POST. No blame be to you, fir; for all was loft. But that the heavens fought: The king himself Of his wings deftitute, the army broken, And but the backs of Britons feen, all flying Through a ftrait lane; the enemy full-hearted, Lolling the tongue with flaughtering, having work More plentiful than tools to do't, struck down Some mortally, fome flightly touch'd, fome falling Merely through fear; that the ftrait pass was damm'd With dead men, hurt behind, and cowards living To die with lengthen'd shame,

LORD. Where was this lane?

POST. Clofe by the battle, ditch'd, and wall'd with turf;
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 his country;-athwart the lane,
He, with two ftriplings, (lads more like to run
The country base, than to commit such slaughter;
With faces fit for masks, or rather fairer
Than thofe for preservation cas'd, or shame,)
Made good the paffage; cry'd to those that fled,
Our Britain's harts die flying, not our men:
To darkness fleet, fouls that fly backwards! Stand;
Or we are Roman's, and will give you that
Like beafts, which you fhun beaftly; and may fave,
But to look back in frown: ftand, ftand.-These three,
Three thousand confident, in act as many,
(For three performers are the file, when all
The reft do nothing,) with this word, ftand, ftand,
Accommodated by the place, more charming
With their own nobleness, (which could have turn'd
A diftaff to a lance,) gilded pale looks,

Part, fhame, part, fpirit renew'd; that fome, turn'd coward
But by example (O, 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'the hunters. Then began
A ftop i'the chafer, a retire; anon,

A rout, confufion thick: Forthwith, they fly
Chickens, the way which they ftoop'd eagles; flaves,
The ftrides they victors made: And now our cowards,
(Like fragments in hard voyages,) became

The life o'the need; having found the back-door open

Of the unguarded hearts, Heavens, how they wound!
Some, flain before; fome, dying; fome, their friends
O'er-borne i'the former wave: ten, chac'd by one,
Are now each one the flaughter-man of twenty:
Thofe, that would die or ere refift, are grown
The mortal bugs o'the field.

LORD. This was ftrange chance :

A narrow lane! an old man, and two boys!
POST. Nay, do not wonder at it: You are made
Rather to wonder at the things you hear,
Than to work any. Will you rhyme upon't,
And vent it for a mockery? Here is one :
Two boys, an old man twice a boy, a lane,
Preferv'd the Britons, was the Romans' bane.
LORD. Nay, be not angry, fir.

POST. 'Lack, to what end?

Who dares not ftand 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 rhyme.

LORD. Farewell; you are angry.

[Exit.

POST. Still going?—This is a lord! O noble mifery! To be i'the field, and afk, what news, of me! To-day, how many would have given their honours To have fav'd their carcaffes? 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 ftruck: Being an ugly monster, "Tis ftrange, he hides him in fresh cups, foft beds, Sweet words; or hath more minifters than we

That draw his knives i'the war.-Well, I will find him For, being now a favourer to the Roman,

No more a Briton, I have refum'd again