A Field between the British and Roman Camps.
Enter Pofthumus with a bloody handkerchief.
EA, bloody cloth, I'll keep thee; for I wifht Thou fhould't be colour'd thus, You married ones, If each of you would take this courfe, how many Muft murther wives much better than themselves For wrying but a little? oh Pifanio!
Every good fervant does not all commands; No bond, but to do juft ones. -- Gods! if you
Should have ta'en vengeance on my faults, I never Had liv'd to put on this; fo had you faved The noble Imogen to repent, and struck Me, wretch, more worth your vengeance. But alack, You fnatch fome hence for little faults; that's love To have them fall no more; you fome permi, To fecond ills with ills, each worse than other And make them "dreaded, to the doers thrift. But Imogen's your own: do your best wills, And make me bleft t'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 purpofe. I'll difrobe me Of thefe Italian weeds, and fuit my felf As do's a Briton peafant; fo I'll fight Against the part I come with; fo I'll die For thee, O Imogen, for whom my life
3 dread it...old edit. Theob. emend.
Is every breath a death; and thus 4'not known, Pitied, or hated, to the face of peril My felf I'll dedicate. Let me make men know More valour in me, than my habit fhews; Gods, put the ftrength o'th' Leonati in me! To fhame the guife o'th' world, I will begin The fashion, lefs without, and more within.
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 Pofthumus; be vanquisheth and difarmeth Iachimo, and then leaves him.
Iach. The heavinefs and guilt within my bofom 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 profeffion? knighthoods, 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.
The battel continues; the Britons fly, Cymbeline is taken; then enter to his refcue, Bellarius, Guiderius, and
Bel. Stand, ftand; we have th' advantage of the ground, That lane is guarded: nothing routs us, but
The villainy of our fears,
Guid. Arv, Stand, ftand and fight.
Enter Pofthumus, and feconds the Britons. They rescue Cymbeline, and exeunt.
Then enter Lucius, Iachimo, and Imogen.
Luc. Away, boy, from the troops, and fave thy felf;
For friends kill friends, and the disorders fuch As war were hood-wink'd.
Iach. 'Tis their fresh fupplies.
Luc. It is a day turn'd ftrangely. Or betimes Let's re-inforce, or fly.
SCENE II.
Another part of the field of Battle, Enter Pofthumus, and a British Lord.
Lord. CAm't thou from where they made the stand ?
Though you it feems came from the fliers.
Poft. No blame be to you, Sir, for all was loft, But that the heavens fought: the King himself Of his wings deftitute, the army broken, And but the backs of Britons feen; all flying Through a ftraight lane, the enemy full-hearted, Lolling the tongue with flaught'ring, having work More plentiful, than tools to do't, ftruck down Some mortally, fome flightly touch'd, fome falling Meerly through fear, that the ftrait pafs was damm'd With dead men, hurt behind, and cowards living To die with lengthen'd fhame.
Lord. Where was this lane?
Poft. Clofe by the battel, ditch'd, and wall'd with turf, Which gave advantage to an ancient foldier,
An honeft one I warrant, who deferv'd
So long a breeding as his white beard came to, In doing this for's country: 'thwart the lane, He, with two ftriplings, (lads more like to run The country Base, than to commit fuch flaughter, With faces fit for masks, or rather fairer
Than thofe for preservation cas'd) For Shame Make good the paffage, cry'd to thofe that fled, Our Britain's 'barts die flying, not our men; To darkness fleet fouls that fly backwards: ftand, Or we are Romans, and will give you that Like beasts, which you fhun beastly, and may fave But to look back in frown: ftand, stand-These three, Three thoufand confident, in act as many,
(For three performers are the file, when all The reft do nothing;) with this word Stand, ftand, Accommodated by the place, more charming
With their own noblenefs, which could have turn'd A diftaff to a lance, gilded pale looks
Part, fhame, part, fpirit-renew'd; that fome turn'd coward But by example (oh a fin 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 ftop i'th' chafer, a retire; anon
A rout confufion-thick. Forthwith they flie Chickens, the way which they ftoop'd eagles; flaves, The ftrides 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 flain before, fome dying, fome their friends O'er-born i'th' former wave; ten chac'd by one Are now each one the flaughter-man of twenty; Those that would die or e'er refift, are grown The mortal bugs o'th' field.
Lord. This was ftrange chance;
A narrow lane! an old man, and two boys!
Poft. Nay, do not wonder at it; tho' you are made Rather to wonder at the things you hear,
6 for preservation cas'd, or fhame) Made, &c.
7 hearts... old edit. Theob. emend.
Lord. Farewel, you are angry.
Poft. This is a Lord; oh noble mifery
To be i'th' field, and ask what news, of me! To-day, how many would have given their honours To've fav'd their carcaffes! 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 ftruck. This ugly monfter, 'Tis ftrange, he hides him in fresh cups, foft beds, Sweet words; 9 'and' hath more minifters than we That draw his knives in war. Well, I will find him For being now a favourer to the 'Roman,`
No more a Briton; I've refum'd again, The part I came in; fight I will no more, But yield me to the verieft hind, that shall Once touch my fhoulder. Great the flaughter is Here made by th' Roman; great the answer be, Britons must take! For me, my ranfom's death, On either fide I come to spend my breath; Which neither here I'll keep, nor bear again, But end it by fome 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 fons, were angels.
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, Preferv'd the Britons, was the Romans bane. Lord. Nay, be not angry, Sir.
Poft. 'Lack, to what end?
Who dares not ftand 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, &c.
(b) Meaning that his avoe feem'd as a charm which protected bim. Warburton.
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