Posthumus.
Yea, bloody cloth, I'll keep thee; for I wisht,
Thou should'st be colour'd thus. You married Ones,
If each of you would take this course, how many
Must murder 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 lived to put on this; so had you saved
The noble Imogen to repent, and struck
Me, wretch, more worth your vengeance. But alack,
You snatch from hence for little faults; that's love;
To have them fall no more:—you some permit
To second ills with ills, each worse than other,
And make them dread ^note, to the doers' thrift.—
But Imogen's your own: do your best wills,
And make me blest t'obey! I am brought hither
Among th' Italian Gentry, and to fight
Against my lady's Kingdom; 'tis enough,
That, Britaine, 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 myself
As do's a Briton peasant; so I'll fight
Against the part I come with; so I'll die
For thee, O Imogen, for whom my life
Is, ev'ry breath, a death; and thus unknown,
Pitied, nor hated, to the face of peril

Myself I'll dedicate. Let me make men know
More valour in me, than my Habits shew;
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 British 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've 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, have subdu'd me
In my profession? Knighthoods, and Honours born,
As I wear mine, are titles but of scorn:
If that thy gentry, Britaine, go before
This lowt, 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 th' advantage of the ground;
That lane is guarded: nothing routs us, but
The villany of our fears.

Guid. 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 thyself;
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.

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