Cymbeline

1 Enter Posthumus and a Briton Lord.
2 LORD.
3 Cam’st thou from where they made the stand?
4 POSTHUMUS.
5 I did:
6 Though you, it seems, come from the fliers.
7 LORD.
8 I did.
9 POSTHUMUS.
10 No blame be to you, sir, for all was lost,
11 But that the heavens fought. The King himself
12 Of his wings destitute, the army broken,
13 And but the backs of Britons seen, all flying,
14 Through a strait lane; the enemy, full-hearted,
15 Lolling the tongue with slaught’ring, having work
16 More plentiful than tools to do’t, struck down
17 Some mortally, some slightly touch’d, some falling
18 Merely through fear, that the strait pass was damm’d
19 With dead men hurt behind, and cowards living
20 To die with length’ned shame.
21 LORD.
22 Where was this lane?
23 POSTHUMUS.
24 Close by the battle, ditch’d, and wall’d with turf,
25 Which gave advantage to an ancient soldier,
26 An honest one, I warrant, who deserv’d
27 So long a breeding as his white beard came to,
28 In doing this for’s country. Athwart the lane
29 He, with two striplings (lads more like to run
30 The country base than to commit such slaughter;
31 With faces fit for masks, or rather fairer
32 Than those for preservation cas’d or shame)
33 Made good the passage, cried to those that fled
34 ‘Our Britain’s harts die flying, not our men.
35 To darkness fleet souls that fly backwards! Stand;
36 Or we are Romans and will give you that,
37 Like beasts, which you shun beastly, and may save
38 But to look back in frown. Stand, stand!’ These three,
39 Three thousand confident, in act as many—
40 For three performers are the file when all
41 The rest do nothing—with this word ‘Stand, stand!’
42 Accommodated by the place, more charming
43 With their own nobleness, which could have turn’d
44 A distaff to a lance, gilded pale looks,
45 Part shame, part spirit renew’d; that some turn’d coward
46 But by example (O, a sin in war
47 Damn’d in the first beginners) ’gan to look
48 The way that they did and to grin like lions
49 Upon the pikes o’ th’ hunters. Then began
50 A stop i’ th’ chaser, a retire; anon
51 A rout, confusion thick. Forthwith they fly,
52 Chickens, the way which they stoop’d eagles; slaves,
53 The strides they victors made; and now our cowards,
54 Like fragments in hard voyages, became
55 The life o’ th’ need. Having found the back-door open
56 Of the unguarded hearts, heavens, how they wound!
57 Some slain before, some dying, some their friends
58 O’erborne i’ th’ former wave. Ten chas’d by one
59 Are now each one the slaughterman of twenty.
60 Those that would die or ere resist are grown
61 The mortal bugs o’ th’ field.
62 LORD.
63 This was strange chance:
64 A narrow lane, an old man, and two boys.
65 POSTHUMUS.
66 Nay, do not wonder at it; you are made
67 Rather to wonder at the things you hear
68 Than to work any. Will you rhyme upon’t,
69 And vent it for a mock’ry? Here is one:
70 ‘Two boys, an old man (twice a boy), a lane,
71 Preserv’d the Britons, was the Romans’ bane.’
72 LORD.
73 Nay, be not angry, sir.
74 POSTHUMUS.
75 ’Lack, to what end?
76 Who dares not stand his foe I’ll be his friend;
77 For if he’ll do as he is made to do,
78 I know he’ll quickly fly my friendship too.
79 You have put me into rhyme.
80 LORD.
81 Farewell; you’re angry.
82 [_Exit._]
83 POSTHUMUS.
84 Still going? This is a lord! O noble misery,
85 To be i’ th’ field and ask ‘What news?’ of me!
86 Today how many would have given their honours
87 To have sav’d their carcasses! took heel to do’t,
88 And yet died too! I, in mine own woe charm’d,
89 Could not find death where I did hear him groan,
90 Nor feel him where he struck. Being an ugly monster,
91 ’Tis strange he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds,
92 Sweet words; or hath moe ministers than we
93 That draw his knives i’ th’ war. Well, I will find him;
94 For being now a favourer to the Briton,
95 No more a Briton, I have resum’d again
96 The part I came in. Fight I will no more,
97 But yield me to the veriest hind that shall
98 Once touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter is
99 Here made by th’ Roman; great the answer be
100 Britons must take. For me, my ransom’s death;
101 On either side I come to spend my breath,
102 Which neither here I’ll keep nor bear again,
103 But end it by some means for Imogen.
104 Enter two British Captains and soldiers.
105 FIRST CAPTAIN.
106 Great Jupiter be prais’d! Lucius is taken.
107 ’Tis thought the old man and his sons were angels.
108 SECOND CAPTAIN.
109 There was a fourth man, in a silly habit,
110 That gave th’ affront with them.
111 FIRST CAPTAIN.
112 So ’tis reported;
113 But none of ’em can be found. Stand! who’s there?
114 POSTHUMUS.
115 A Roman,
116 Who had not now been drooping here if seconds
117 Had answer’d him.
118 SECOND CAPTAIN.
119 Lay hands on him; a dog!
120 A leg of Rome shall not return to tell
121 What crows have peck’d them here. He brags his service,
122 As if he were of note. Bring him to th’ King.
123 Enter Cymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, Pisanio and Roman
124 captives. The Captains present Posthumus to Cymbeline, who delivers
125 him over to a gaoler.
126 [_Exeunt omnes._]