The princess of this country, and the air on't
Revengingly enfeebles me; Or could this carl*,
A very drudge of nature's, have subdu'd 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. The battle continues; the Britons fly; Cymbeline is taken then enter, to his rescue, Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus.

Bel. Stand, stand! We have the advantage of the ground;

The lane is guarded: nothing routs us, but
The villainy of our fears.

Gui. Arv.

Stand, stand, and fight!

Enter Posthumus, and seconds the Britons: They rescue Cymbeline, 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 such
As war were hood-wink'd.

Iach.

"Tis their fresh supplies.

[Exeunt.

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

stand?

Post.

Though you, it seems, come from the fliers.

I did:

* Clown.

Lord.

I did.

Post. 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? Post. 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 his 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,)
Make good the passage; cry'd 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,

Part, shame, part, spirit renew'd; that some, turn'd coward

* Block'd up.

+ A country-game called prison-bars, vulgarly prison-base.

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'erborne i'the former wave: ten, chas'd by one,
Are now each one the slaughterman 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!

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

Post.

'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 rhyme.

Lord.

Farewell, you are angry. [Exit. Post. Still going?-This is a lord!-0 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 carcasses? 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;

* Terrors.

Nor feel him, where he struck: Being an ugly

monster,

'Tis strange, he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds,
Sweet words, or hath more ministers 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 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. Great the slaughter is,
Here made by the Roman; great the answer be
Britons must take; For me, my ransome'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 Cup. Great Jupiter be prais'd! Lucius is taken: 'Tis thought the old man and his sons were angels. 2 Cap. There was a fourth man, in a silly habit, That gave the affront with them.

1 Cap.

So 'tis reported: But none of them can be found.-Stand! who is

Who had not now been drooping here, if seconds

Had answer'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 the king.

Enter Cymbeline, attended; Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, Pisanio, and Roman captives. The Captains present Posthumus to Cymbeline, who delivers him over to a Gaoler: after which, all go

out.

* Encounter.

SCENE IV.

A prison.

Enter Posthumus, and two Gaolers.

1 Gaol. You shall not now be stolen, you have locks upon you;

So, graze, as you find pasture.

2 Gaol.

Ay, or a stomach. [Exeunt Gaolers.

Post. 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! I'st 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 'tis 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
'Tis not so dear, yet 'tis a life; you coin'd it:
"Tween man and man, they weigh not every stamp;
Though light, take pieces for the figure's sake:
You rather mine, being yours: And so, great powers,

* Fetters.