British Lord

Camest thou from where they made the stand!

Posthumus

I did:

Though you, it seems, come from the fliers.

British Lord

I did.

Posthumus

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 touched, some falling

Merely through fear; that the strait pass was dammed

With dead men hurt behind, and cowards living

To die with lengthened shame.

British Lord

Where was this lane?

Posthumus

Close by the battle ditched, and walled with turf;

Which gave advantage to an ancient soldier,

An honest one, I warrant; who deserved

So long a breeding as his white beard came to,

In doing this for's country: athwart 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 cased, or shame, —

Made good the passage; cried 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 turned

A distaff to a lance, gilded pale looks,

Part shame, part spirit renewed; that some, turned coward

But by example — O, a sin in war,

Damned 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 stooped 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, chased by one,

Are now each one the slaughterman of twenty:

Those that would die or ere resist are grown

The mortal bugs o' the field.

British Lord

This was strange chance:

A narrow lane, an old man, and two boys.

Posthumus

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 lane,

Preserved the Britons, was the Romans' bane.”

British Lord

Nay, be not angry, sir.

Posthumus

'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 rhyme.

British Lord

Farewell; you're angry.

Posthumus

Still going? Exit Lord. 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 saved their carcasses! took heel to do't,

And yet died too! I, in mine own woe charmed,

Could not find death where I did hear him groan,

Nor feel him where he struck: being an ugly monster,

'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 Briton,

No more a Briton, I have resumed 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 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 British Captains and Soldiers.

First Captain

Great Jupiter be praised! Lucius is taken.

'Tis thought the old man and his sons were angels.

Second Captain

There was a fourth man, in a silly habit,

That gave the affront with them.

First Captain

So 'tis reported:

But none of 'em can be found. Stand! who's there?

Posthumus

A Roman,

Who had not now been drooping here, if seconds

Had answered him.

Second Captain

Lay hands on him; a dog!

A leg of Rome shall not return to tell

What crows have pecked them here. He brags his service

As if he were of note: bring him to the king. Enter CYMBELINE, BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, ARVIRAGUS, PISANIO, Soldiers, Attendants, and Roman Captives. The Captains present POSTHUMUS to CYMBELINE, who delivers him over to a Gaoler:then exeunt omnes.