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 beginnersl-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 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‘th’ 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‘th’ 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’th’ field.

LORD

This was strange chance:

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

POSTHUMUS

Nay, do not wonder at it. Yet 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 mock’ry? 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 to do,

I know he’ll quickly fly my friendship too.

You have put me into rhyme.

LORD

Farewell; you’re angry.

Exit

POSTHUMUS

Still going? This a lord? O noble misery,

To be i‘th’ field and ask ‘What news?’ of me!

Today 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’th’ 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 th’ 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 Innogen.

Enter two Briton 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 seely habit,

That gave th’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 (to soldiers) 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 th’ King.

⌈Flourish.⌉ Enter Cymbeline ⌈and his train⌉, Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, Pisanio, and Roman captives. The Captains present Posthumus to Cymbeline, who delivers him over to a Jailer. Exeunt all but Posthumus and two Jailers, ⌈who lock gyves on his legs⌉

FIRST JAILER

You shall not now be stol’n. You have locks upon you,

So graze as you find pasture.

SECOND JAILER

Ay, or a stomach.

Exeunt Jailers

POSTHUMUS

Most welcome, bondage, for thou art a way,

I think, to liberty. Yet am I better

Than one that’s sick o‘th’ gout, since he had rather

Groan so in perpetuity than be cured

By th’ sure physician, death, who is the key

T’unbar these locks. My conscience, thou art fettered

More than my shanks and wrists. You good gods give

me

The penitent instrument to pick that bolt,

Then free for ever. Is’t enough I am sorry?

So children temporal fathers do appease;

Gods are more full of mercy. Must I repent,

I cannot do it better than in gyves

Desired more than constrained. To satisfy,

If of my freedom ‘tis the main part, take no

No stricter render of me than my all.

I know you are more clement than vile men

Who of their broken debtors take a third,

A sixth, a tenth, letting them thrive again

On their abatement. That’s not my desire.

For Innogen’s dear life take mine, and though

’Tis not so dear, yet ‘tis a life; you coined it.

’Tween man and man they weigh not every stamp;

Though light, take pieces for the figure’s sake;

You rather mine, being yours. And so, great powers,