Lord.
Camest thou from where they made the stand?

Post.
I did:
Though you, it seems, come ^note from the fliers. ^note

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 ^note 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 ^note
With dead men ^note 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 deserved
So long a breeding as his white beard came to,
In doing this for's country. Athwart ^note 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 cased, or shame—
Made good the passage; cried ^note to those that fled,
‘Our Britain's harts ^note die flying, not our men:
To darkness fleet souls that fly backwards. ^note 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 ^note: 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 ^note; 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 ^note: forthwith they fly
Chickens, the way which they stoop'd ^note eagles; slaves,

The strides they victors ^note made: and now our cowards,
Like fragments in hard voyages, became ^note
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 chased by one
Are now each one the slaughter-man of twenty:
Those that would die or ere resist are grown
The mortal bugs ^note o' the field.

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

Post.
Nay, do not ^note wonder at it: you ^note 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,
Preserved 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 ^note. ^note

Lord.
Farewell; you're ^note angry. [Exit.

Post.
Still going? ^note This is ^note a lord! O noble misery!
To be i' the field, and ask ‘what news?’ of ^note me!
To-day how many would have given their honours
To have ^note saved 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,

Nor feel him where he struck ^note. Being an ^note ugly monster,
'Tis strange he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds,
Sweet words; or hath ^note moe ^note ministers than we
That draw his knives i' the ^note war. Well, I will find him:
For being now a favourer to the Briton ^note,
No more a Briton, I have ^note resumed 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 ransom's death:
On either side I come to spend my breath,
Which neither here I'll keep nor ^note bear again,
But end it by some means for Imogen. Enter two British ^note Captains and Soldiers.

First Cap. ^note
Great Jupiter be praised! Lucius is taken:
'Tis thought the old man and his sons were angels.

Sec. Cap. ^note
There was a fourth man, in a silly habit,
That gave the affront with them.

First Cap. ^note
So 'tis reported:
But none of 'em ^note can be found. Stand! ^note who's ^note there?

Post.
A Roman;
Who had not now been drooping here if seconds
Had answer'd him.

Sec. Cap. ^note
Lay hands on him; a dog!
A leg ^note of Rome shall not return to tell
What crows have peck'd them here. He brags his service

^note
As if he were of note: bring him to the king. Enter Cymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, Pisanio, and Roman Captives. The Captains present Posthumus to Cymbeline ^note, who delivers him over to a Gaoler: then exeunt omnes. ^{note note note}

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