A C T V.

SCENE I.

A Field between the British and Roman Camps.

Y

Enter Pofthumus, with a bloody handkerchief.

POSTHUMUS.

EA, bloody cloth, I'll keep thee; for I wisht,
Thou fhould't be colour'd thus. You married
Ones,

If each of you would take this courfe, how many
Muft murder wives much better than themselves
For wrying but a little? oh, Pifanio!

Every good fervant does not all Commands;
No bond, but to do just ones.

-Gods! if you

Should have ta'en vengeance on my faults, I never
Had lived to put on this; so had you faved
The noble Imogen to repent, and ftruck

Me, wretch, more worth your vengeance. But alack,
You fnatch from hence for little faults; that's love;
To have them fall no more:

-you fome permit

To fecond ills with ills, each worfe 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
Againit my lady's Kingdom; 'tis enough,
That, Britaine, I have kill'd thy miftrefs: Peace!
I'll give no wound to thee. Therefore, good heav'ns,
Hear patiently my purpose. I'll difrobe me
Of thefe Italian weeds, and fuit myself
As do's Briton peafant; fo I'll fight
Against the part I come with; fo I'll die
For thee, O Imogen, for whom my life
Is, ev'ry breath, a death; and thus unknown,
Pitied, nor hated, to the face of peril

My felf

Myself I'll dedicate. Let me make men know More valour in me, than my Habits fhew: 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. [Exit. Enter Lucius, Iachimo, and the Roman army at one door; and the British army at another; Leonatus Pofthumus following like a poor foldier. They march over, and go out. Then enter again in fkirmish Iachimo, and Pofthumus; he 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 fubdu'd me In my profeffion? Knighthoods, and Honours born, As I wear mine, are titles but of fcorn :

If that thy gentry, Britaine, go before

This lowt, as he exceeds our lords, the odds Is, that we scarce are men, and you are Gods. [Exit. The battle continues: the Britons fly, Cymbeline is taken; then enter to his refcue, Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus.

Bel. Stand, ftand; we have th' advantage of the ground;

That lane is guarded: nothing routs us, but
The villany of our fears.

Guid. Arv. Stand, ftand, and fight.

Enter Pofthumus, and feconds the Britons. They refeue 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 diforder's 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.

Another part of the Field of Battle.

Enter Pofthumus, and a British Lord.

Lord. CAm

[Exeunt.

Am'ft thou from where they made the
Stand?

Poft. I did.

Though you, it feems, came from the fliers.
Lord. I did.

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 Britaine feen; all flying
Through a ftraight lane, the enemy full-hearted,
Lolling the tongue with flaughtering, having work
More plentiful, than tools to do't, ftruck down
Some mortally, fome flightly touch'd, fome falling
Merely through fear, that the ftraight Pass 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 battle, 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 rur
The country Bafe, than to commit fuch fl
With faces fit for masks. or rather faire who's there?
Than thofe for prefervation cas'd, or
Made good the paffage, cry'd to th

Who

Our Britaine's Harts die flying, not our men;
To darkness fleet fouls, that fly backwards! fland;
Or we are Romans, and will give you That
Like beafts, which you fhun beafly, and may fave
But to look back in frown: ftand, ftand.-

three,

-Thefe

Three thousand 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 firft 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 fly
Chickens, the way which they floop'd eagles: flaves,
The frides they victors mad; 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-borne i'th' former wave; ten, chas'd by one,
Are now each one the flaughter-man of twenty;
Thofe, that would die or ere refift, are grown
The mortal hugs o' th' field.

Lord. This was ftrange chance,

A narrow lane! an old man, and two boys!
Poft. Nay, do not wonder at it; you are made
her to wonder at the things you hear,

The ork any. Will you rhime upon't?

Luc. Awayfor a mockery? here is one: For friends kiid man, (twice a boy.) a lane, As war were hoons, was the Romans' bane.

Lord.

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 rhimes.

Lord. Farewel, you are angry.

[Exit.

Poft. This is a lord-oh noble mifery, To be i' th' field, and afk 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 monter,'Tis, ftrange he hides him in fresh cups, foft beds, Sweet words; or hath more minifters than we, That draw his knives i' th' war

him:

Well, I will find

For being now a favourer to the Briton,
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 fhall
Once touch my fhoulder. Great the flaughter is
Here made by th' Roman; great the anfwer 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,
Bút end it by fome means for Imogen.

Enter two British Captains, and Soldiers.

1 Cap. Great Jupiter be prais'd, Lucius is taken! 'Tis thought, the old man, and his fons, were angels. 2 Cap. There was a fourth man, in a filly habit, That gave th' affront with them.

1 Cap. So 'tis reported;

But none of them can be found. Stand, who's there? Poft. A Roman·

Who