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

Post.
I did.
Though you, it seems, came from the fliers.

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 Britain seen; all flying

Through a straight lane; the enemy full-hearted,
Lolling the tongue with slaught'ring, having work
More plentiful, than tools to do't, struck down
Some mortally, some slightly touch'd, some falling
Meerly through fear, that the straight 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 battel, 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. 'Thwart 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, cry'd to those that fled,
“Our Britaine's Harts die flying, not our men;(49) ^note
“To darkness fleet souls, that fly backwards! stand;
“Or we are Romans, and will give you That(50) ^note

“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
But by example, (oh, 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'th' hunters. Then began
A stop i'th' chaser, a retire; anon,
A rout, confusion thick. Forthwith they flie
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'th' need; having found the back door open
Of the unguarded hearts, heav'ns, how they wound
Some slain before, some dying; some, their friends
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 resist, are grown
The mortal bugs o'th' field.

Lord.
This was strange chance,
A narrow lane! an old man, and two boys!

Post.
Nay, do but wonder at it; you are made(51) ^note


Rather to wonder at the things you hear,
Than to work any. Will you rhime upon't?

And vent it for a mockery? here is one:
“Two boys, and an old man, (twice a boy,) a lane,
“Preserv'd the Britains, 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 rhymes.

Lord.
Farewel, you are angry. [Exit.

Post.
This is a lord—oh noble misery,
To be i'th' field, and ask what news, of me!
To day, how many would have given their honours
To've sav'd their carkasses? 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 strange he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds,
Sweet words; or hath more ministers than we
That draw his knives i'th' war—Well, I will find him:(52) ^note

For being now a favourer to the Britain,
No more a Britain, I've 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 th' Roman; great the answer be,
Britains 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 Cap.
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 th' affront with them.

1 Cap.
So 'tis reported;
But none of them can be found. Stand, who's there?

Post.
A Roman;—
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 th' King. Enter Cymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, Pisanio, and Roman captives. The captains present Posthumus to Cymbeline, who delivers him over to a Goaler. After which, all go out.

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