ACT V. SCENE I-A field between the British and 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, alack, But, You snatch some hence for little faults; that's love, And make me bless'd to obey!—I am brought hither 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, 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, IACHIMO, 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, Ĩachimo 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 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. Bel. Stand, stand! We have the advantage of the ground; The lane is guarded: nothing routs us, but 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 thyself: For friends kill friends, and the disorder's such As war were hood-wink'd. Iach. 'Tis their fresh supplies. Luc. It is a day turn'd strangely: Or betimes Let's re-enforce, or fly. [Exeunt. SCENE III-Another part of the field. Enter POSTHUMUS and a British Lord. Lord. Cam'st thou from where they made the stand? Post. I did: Though you, it seems, come from the fliers. Lord. I did. Post. No blame be to you, sir; for all was lost, 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, The rest do nothing,) with this word, stand, stand, 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 A rout, confusion thick: Forthwith, they fly 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, chac'd by one, Are now each one the slaughter-man of twenty: Lord. This was strange chance: A narrow lane! an old man, and two boys! 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! ster, 'Tis strange, he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds, For being now a favourer to the Roman, |