Enter Posthumus and a Briton Lord. LORD
Cam’st thou from where they made the stand? POSTHUMUS I did,
Though you, it seems, come from the fliers. LORD Ay. POSTHUMUS
No blame be to you, sir, for all was lost, 5
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 slaught’ring, having work 10
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. 15 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, 20
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— 25
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 30
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 35
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, 40
Damned in the first beginners!—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 45
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 backdoor open 50
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 55
The mortal bugs o’ th’ field. | Posthumus runs into a couple of British lords who had fled from the fight. He tells them what happened in the battle. |
POSTHUMUS
Nay, do not wonder at it. You are made
Rather to wonder at the things you hear 60
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. 65 | Posthumus is in a really bad mood and makes fun of them by coming up with a little riddle about the battle. Real mature. Not really understanding what's happening, the lords just figure that Posthumus is really angry, though they can't understand why. |
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. 70 LORD Farewell. You’re angry. He exits. POSTHUMUS
Still going? This is a lord! O noble misery,
To be i’ th’ field and ask “What news?” of me!
Today how many would have given their honors
To have saved their carcasses, took heel to do ’t, 75
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 80
That draw his knives i’ th’ war. Well, I will find him;
For being now a favorer to the Briton,
No more a Briton. (He removes his peasant
costume.) I have resumed again
The part I came in. Fight I will no more, 85
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, 90
Which neither here I’ll keep nor bear again,
But end it by some means for Imogen. | Once the lords leave, Posthumus gets rid of his British clothes and puts his Roman uniform on again. Posthumus wants to punish himself for Imogen's death by dying himself. |
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 silly habit 95
That gave th’ affront with them. FIRST CAPTAIN So ’tis reported,
But none of ’em can be found.—Stand. Who’s there? | Two captains enter and declare how grateful everyone is for the four men who saved the day. Aside from the old man and two young boys, there was another man in weird clothes. That fourth man would be Posthumus. Now that the war's over, no one can find any of the men. |
POSTHUMUS A Roman,
Who had not now been drooping here if seconds 100
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 105
As if he were of note. Bring him to th’ King. Enter Cymbeline, Attendants, Belarius as Morgan,
Guiderius as Polydor, Arviragus as Cadwal, Pisanio,
Soldiers, and Roman captives. The Captains present
Posthumus to Cymbeline, who delivers him over to a
Jailer.
They exit. | The captains find Posthumus and see that he is a Roman. They decide to take him to the king for punishment. |