Cymbeline

out and show them princes born. Exeunt.

Act V

Scene I

Britain. The Roman camp.

Enter Posthumus, with a bloody handkerchief.

Posthumus

Yea, bloody cloth, I’ll keep thee, for I wish’d Thou shouldst be colour’d thus. You married ones, If each of you should take this course, how many Must murder wives much better than themselves For wrying but a little! O Pisanio! Every good servant 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 saved The noble Imogen to repent, and struck Me, wretch more worth your vengeance. But, alack, You snatch some hence for little faults; that’s love, To have them fall no more: you some permit To second ills with ills, each elder worse, And make them dread it, to the doers’ thrift. But Imogen is your own: do your best wills, And make me blest to obey! I am brought hither Among the Italian gentry, and to fight Against my lady’s kingdom: ’tis enough That, Britain, I have kill’d thy mistress; peace! I’ll give no wound to thee. Therefore, good heavens, Hear patiently my purpose: I’ll disrobe me Of these Italian weeds and suit myself As does a Briton peasant: so I’ll fight Against the part I come with; so I’ll die For thee, O Imogen, even for whom my life Is every breath a death; and thus, unknown, Pitied nor hated, to the face of peril Myself I’ll dedicate. Let me make men know More valour in me than my habits show. Gods, put the strength o’ the Leonati in me! To shame the guise o’ the world, I will begin The fashion, less without and more within. Exit.

Scene II

Field of battle between the British and Roman camps.

	Enter, from one side, Lucius, Iachimo, and the Roman Army; from the other side, the British Army; Posthumus Leonatus following, like a poor soldier. They march over and go out. Then enter again, in skirmish, Iachimo and Posthumus: he vanquisheth and disarmeth Iachimo, and then leaves him.
Iachimo	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 subdued 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 Is that we scarce are men and you are gods. Exit.
	The battle continues; the Britons fly; Cymbeline is taken: then enter, to his rescue, Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus.
Belarius	Stand, stand! We have the advantage of the ground; The lane is guarded: nothing routs us but The villany of our fears.
Guiderius Arviragus	Stand, stand, and fight!
	Re-enter Posthumus, and seconds the Britons: they rescue Cymbeline, and exeunt. Then re-enter Lucius, and Iachimo, with Imogen.
Lucius	Away, boy, from the troops, and save thyself; For friends kill friends, and the disorder’s such As war were hoodwink’d.
Iachimo	’Tis their fresh supplies.
Lucius	It is a day turn’d strangely: or betimes Let’s reinforce, or fly. Exeunt.

Scene III

Another part of the field.

	Enter Posthumus and a British Lord.
Lord	Camest thou from where they made the stand?
Posthumus	I did: Though you, it seems, come from the fliers.
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 straight 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 touch’d, some falling Merely through fear; that the straight pass was damm’d With dead men hurt behind, and cowards living To die with lengthen’d shame.
Lord	Where was this lane?
Posthumus	Close by the battle, ditch’d, and wall’d 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 turn’d A distaff to a lance, gilded pale looks, Part shame, part spirit renew’d; that some, turn’d coward But by example⁠—O, 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’ the hunters. Then began A stop i’ the chaser, a retire, anon A rout, confusion thick; forthwith they fly Chickens, the way which they stoop’d 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’er-borne i’ the former wave: ten, chased by one, Are now each one the slaughter-man of twenty: Those that would die or ere resist are grown The mortal bugs o’ the field.
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.”
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