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. Aro.

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.

[Excunt.

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.

Lord.

I did:

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 baset, 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 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

But by example (O, a sin in war,

Block'd up.

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

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 cre 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 lune,
Presero'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 thyme.

Farewell, you are angry.

[Exit.

Lord. Post. Still going?-This is a lord! O 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; Nor feel him, where he struck: Being an ugly monster,

* Terrors.

'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 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 the affront with them.

1 Cap.

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

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 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 arta 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 fet

ter'd

More than my shanks, and wrists: You good gods, give me

The penitent instrument, to pick that bolt,
Then, free for ever! Is't enough, I am sorry?
So children temporal fathers do appease;
Gods are more full of mercy. Must 1 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;

* Fetters.