Post.
Yea bloody Cloth, I'll keep thee; for I am wisht
Thou should'st be colour'd thus. You married ones,

If each of you would take this Course, how many
Must murther Wives much better than themselves
For wrying but a little? Oh Pisanio!
Every good Servant does not all Commands—
No Bond, but to do just ones. Gods! if you
Should have ta'en Vengeance on my Faults, I never
Had liv'd to put on this; so had you saved
The noble Imogen to repent, and strook
Me, wretch, more worth your Vengeance. But alack
You snatch from hence for little Faults; that's love
To have them sall no more; you some permit
To second ills with ills, each worse than other,
And make them dread it, to the doers thrift;
But Imogen is your own, do your best Wills,
And make me blest to obey. I am brought hither
Among th' Italian Gentry, and to fight
Against my Lady's Kingdom; 'tis enough
That, Britain, I have kill'd thy Mistress: Peace,
I'll give no wound to thee; therefore, good Heav'ns,
Hear patiently my purpose. I'll disrobe me
Of these Italian Weeds, and suit my self
As do's a Britain Peazant? so I'll fight
Against the part I come with; so 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
My self I'll dedicate. Let me make Men know
More Valour in me, than my Habit's show;
Gods, put the Strength o'th' Leonati in me;
To shame the guise o'th' World, I will begin,
The Fashion less without, and more within. [Exit. Enter Lucius, Iachimo, and the Roman Army at one Door; and the Britain Army at another: Leonatus Posthumus following like a poor Soldier. They march over, and go out. Then enter again in Skirmish Iachimo, and Posthumus; he vanquisheth and disarmeth Iachimo, and then leaves him.

Iach.
The heaviness and guilt within my Bosom,
Takes off my Manhood; I have bely'd a Lady,
The Princess of this Country; and the Air on't
Revengingly enfeebles me: Or could this Carle,

A very drudge of Nature's, have subdu'd me
In my profession? Knighthoods, and Honours born,
As I wear mine, are Titles but of Scorn;
If that thy Gentry, Britain, go before
This Lowt, as he exceeds our Lords, the odds
Is, that we scarce are Men, and you are Gods. [Exit. The Battel continues, the Britains fly, Cymbeline is taken; then enter to his Rescue, Bellarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus.

Bel.
Stand, stand, we have the Advantage of the Ground,
The Lane is Guarded: Nothing routs us, but
The Villany of our Fears.

Guid. Arv.
Stand, stand and fight. Enter Posthumus, and Seconds the Britains. 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.

Luc.
It is a Day turn'd strangely; or betimes
Let's re-inforce, or fly. [Exeunt. Enter Posthumus, and a Britain Lord.

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 to you, Sir, for all was lost,
But that the Heav'ns fought; the King himself
Of his Wings destitute, the Army broken,
And but the backs of Britains seen; all flying
Through a straight Lane, the Enemy sull-hearted,
Lolling the Tongue with slaught'ring, having work
More plentiful, than Tools to do't, strook 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 length'ned 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. 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, cry'd to those that fled,
Our Britain's Hearts die flying, not our Men,
To darkness fleet Souls that fly backward; stand,
Or we are Romans, and will give you that
Like Beasts, which you shun beastly, and may save
But to look back in front: 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 stoopt Eagles; Slaves
The strides the 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 e'er resist, are grown
The mortal Bugs o'th' Field.

Lord.
This was a 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 Rhime upon't,

And vent it for a Mock'ry? Here is one:

“Two Boys, 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 Rhyme.

Lord.
Farewel, you're angry. [Exit.

Post.
Still going? 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 have sav'd their Carkasses? took heel to do't,
And yet died to. I, in mine own woe charm'd,
Could not find Death, where I did hear him groan,
Nor feel him where he strook. 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'th' War. Well I will find him;
For being now a Favourer to the Britain,
No more a Britain, 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 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 agen,
But end it by some means for Imogen. Enter two 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 'em 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 peckt them here; he brags his Service
As if he were of Note; bring him to th' King. Enter Cymbeline, Bellarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, Pisanio, and Roman Captives. The Captains present Posthumus to Cymbeline, who delivers him over to a Gaoler.

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