The princess of this country, and the air on 't
Revengingly enfeebles me; or could this carl,
A very drudge of nature's, have subdued me
In my profession? Knighthoods and honours, borne
As I wear mine, are titles but of scorn.

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.

9

The battle continues; the Britons fly; CYMBELINE is taken : then enter, to his rescue, BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRA

GUS.

Belarius. Stand, stand! We have the advantage of the ground.

The lane is guarded; nothing routs us but

The villany of our fears.

Guiderius.
Arviragus. S

Stand, stand, and fight!

Re-enter POSTHUMUS, and seconds the Britons; they rescue CYMBELINE, and exeunt. Then re-enter Lucius and IACHIMO, with IMOGEN.

Lucius. Away, boy, from the troops, and save thyself;

For friends kill friends, and the disorder 's such

As war were hoodwink'd.

Iachimo.

Lucius. It is a day turn'd strangely; or betimes

"T is their fresh supplies.

Let's reinforce, or fly.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

Another Part of the Field.

Enter POSTHUMUS and a British Lord.

Lord. Cam'st thou from where they made the stand?

Posthumus.

Though you, it seems, come from the fliers.

I did;

Posthumus. No blame be to you, sir; for all was lost,
But that the heavens fought. The king himself

Of his wings destitute, the army broken,
And but the backs of Britons seen, all flying
Through a strait lane; the enemy full-hearted,
Lolling the tongue with slaughtering, having work
More plentiful than tools to do 't, struck down
Some mortally, some slightly touch'd, some falling
Merely through fear; that the strait pass was damm'd
With dead men hurt behind, and cowards living

To die with lengthen'd shame.

Lord.

Where was this lane?

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Posthumus. Close by the battle, ditch'd, and wall'd with

turf;

Which gave advantage to an ancient soldier,

An honest one, I warrant,—who deserv'd
So long a breeding as his white beard came to,
In doing this for 's country. Athwart the lane,
He, with two striplings-lads more like to run
The country base than to commit such slaughter;
With faces fit for masks, or rather fairer
Than those for preservation cas'd, or shame,-
Made good the passage, cried to those that fled,
'Our Britain's harts die flying, not our men ;
To darkness fleet souls that fly backwards. Stand!
Or we are Romans and will give you that

Like beasts which you shun beastly, and may save,
But to look back in frown: stand, stand!'-These three,
Three thousand confident, in act as many—

For three performers are the file when all

The rest do nothing-with this word 'Stand, stand,'
Accommodated by the place, more charming
With their own nobleness, which could have turn'd
A distaff to a lance, gilded pale looks,

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Part shame, part spirit renew'd; that some, turn'd coward
But by example-O, a sin 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 stop i' the chaser, a retire, anon

A rout, confusion thick; forthwith they fly
Chickens, the way which they stoop'd eagles; slaves,
The strides 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 slain before, some dying, some their friends
O'er-borne i' the former wave; ten, chas'd by one,
Are now each one the slaughter-man of twenty:
Those that would die or ere resist are grown
The mortal bugs o' the field.

Lord.

This was strange chance:

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

Posthumus. 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,
Preserv'd the Britons, was the Romans' bane.'
Lord. Nay, be not angry, sir.

Posthumus.

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50

'Lack, to what end?

60

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 rhyme.

Lord.

Farewell; you 're angry.

Posthumus. Still going?-[Exit Lord.] This is a lord!

O noble misery,

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

To-day how many would have given their honours
To have sav'd their carcases! 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. Being an ugly monster,
'T is strange he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds,
Sweet words, or hath moe ministers than we
That draw his knives i' the war.

Well, I will find him;

Great the slaughter is

For being now a favourer to the Briton,
No more a Briton, I have resum'd again
The part I came in. Fight I will no more,
But yield me to the veriest hind that shall
Once touch my shoulder.
Here made by the Roman; great the answer be
Britons must take. For me, my ransom 's death;
On either side 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 British Captains and Soldiers.

1 Captain. Great Jupiter be prais'd! Lucius is taken. 'T is thought the old man and his sons were angels. 2 Captain. There was a fourth man, in a silly habit, That gave the affront with them.

I Captain.

So 't is reported;

But none of 'em can be found.-Stand! who's there?

Posthumus. A Roman,

Who had not now been drooping here if seconds

Had answer'd him.

2 Captain.

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 the king.

Enter CYMBELINE, BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, ARVIRAGUS, PISANIO, Soldiers, Attendants, and Roman Captives. Captains present POSTHUMUS to CYMBELINE, who delivers him over to a Gaoler; then exeunt omnes.

SCENE IV. A British Prison.

Enter POSTHUMUS and two Gaolers.

1 Gaoler. You shall not now be stol'n, you have locks

upon you;

So graze as you find pasture.

2 Gaoler.

Ay, or a stomach.

[Exeunt Gaolers.

Posthumus. Most welcome, bondage! for thou art a way,

I think, to liberty; yet am I better

Than one that's sick o' the gout, since he had rather
Groan so in perpetuity than be cur'd

By the sure physician, death, who is the key

To unbar these locks. My conscience, thou art fetter'd

More than my shanks and wrists; you good gods, give

me

The penitent instrument to pick that bolt,

Then, free for ever! Is 't enough I am sorry?
So children temporal fathers do appease ;
Gods are more full of mercy. Must I repent?
I cannot do it better than in gyves,
Desir'd more than constrain'd; to satisfy,
If of my freedom 't is the main part, take
No stricter render of me than my all.

I know you are more clement than vile men,
Who of their broken debtors take a third,
A sixth, a tenth, letting them thrive again
On their abatement; that's not my desire.
For Imogen's dear life take mine: and though

ΤΟ

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