Imatges de pÓgina

Of these Italian weeds, and suit


As do's a Britain peasant ; so I'll fight
Against the part I come with ; so I'll die
For thee, O Imogen, 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'ch' world, I will begin,
The fashion, less 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 Posthumus; be vanquisbeth and disarmeth Iachimo, and then leaves him.

lach. 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, 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 en

ter to his rescue, Bellarius, 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 Britains. They rescue Cymbe-

line, 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.

lach. 'Tis their fresh supplies.

Luc. It is a day turn'd strangely. Or betimes Let's re-inforce, or Ay.

[Exeunt. SCENE II.

Enter Posthumus, and a British lord.
Lord. Cam'st thou from where they made the stand?

Pot. I did.
Though you it seems came from the fliers.

Lord. 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 Britains seen; all flying

Through a straight lane, the enemy full-hearted, “

Lolling the tongue with slaughtring, having work * More plentifal, than tools to do't, struck down · Some mortally, some slightly touch'd, some falling · Meerly through fear, that the straight pass was damn’d • With dead men, hurt behind; and cowards living To die with lengthen’d shame. Lord. Where was this lane ? Poft. Close by the battel, ditch'd, and wall?d with turf,

Which gave advantage to an ancient soldier,
(An honest one I warrant, who deservd
So long a breeding as his white beard came to)
In doing this for's country. 'Thwart 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 Britains hearts die flying, not our men;
“ To darkness fleet fouls 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 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, ftand,
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 fome türn'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 stoop'd eagles: flaves,
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 bearts, heav'ns, how they wound!
Some Nain 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-ere resist, are grown
The mortal bugs o'th' 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.

Lord. Farewel, you are angry.

Post. 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've sav'd their carkasses ? 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. This ugly monster,
'Tis strange he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds,
Sweet words; or hath more ministers than we
That draw his knives in war. Well I will find him.
For being now a favourer to the Britain,
No more a Britain, I've 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

Than to work any. Will you

rhime upon't, And vent it for a mockery? 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 rhymes

Lord. Farewel, &c.
Vol. VI.



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 again,
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.
i 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 peck'd them bere; he brags his service
As if he were of note; bring him to th’ king.
Enter Cymbeline, Bellarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, Pifanio, and

Roman captives. The captains present Pofthumus to Cymbeline, who delivers him over to a goaler.


A Prison.
Enter Posthumus, and two goalers.
OU shall not now be stola, you've

you; So graze, as you

find pasture. 2 Goal. Ay, or stomach.

[Exeunt Goalers.


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