ACT V. SCENE I. A field between the British and Roman camps. Enter Posthumus, with a bloody handkerchief. Post. Yea, bloody cloth, I'll keep thee; for I wish'd Thou should'st be colour'd thus. You married ones, Every good servant does not all commands: Me wretch, more worth your vengeance. But, alack, Against my lady's kingdom: 'Tis enough That, Britain, I have kill'd thy mistress; peace! vens, Hear patiently my purpose: I'll disrobe me * Deviating from the right way. For thee, O Imogen, even for whom my life Myself I'll dedicate. Let me make men know SCENE II. The same. Enter at one side, Lucius, Tachimo, and the Roman army; at the other side, the British army; Leonatus Posthumus following it, like a poor soldier. They march over, and go out. Alarums. Then enter again in skirmish, Iachimo and Posthumus: he vanquisheth and disarmeth Iachimo, and then leaves him. Iach. The heaviness and guilt within my bosom Takes off my manhood: I have belied a lady, The princess of this country, and the air on't Revengingly enfeebles me; Or could this carl, A very drudge of nature's, have subdu'd me, In my profession? Knighthoods and honours, borne As I wear mine, are titles but of scorn. If that thy gentry, Britain, go before This lout, as he exceeds our lords, the odds {Exit. • Clown. 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. Arv. 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 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, With dead men, hurt behind, and cowards living Lord. Where was this lane? Post. Close by the battle, ditch'd and wall'd with turf; Which gave advantage to an ancient soldier,- So long a breeding, as his white beard came to, Than those for preservation cas'd, or shame), 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, 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 A rout, confusion thick: Forthwith, they fly The life o'the need; having found the back-door open Lord. 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, Post. 'Lack, to what end? Who dares not stand his foe, I'll be his friend: I know, he'll quickly fly my friendship too. Lord. Farewell, you are angry. [Exit. 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 mon ster, • Terrors. |