Lead, lead; the time seems long, their blood thinks scorn Till it flye out, and shew them Princes borne.

Exeunt.

Actus Quintus. Scena Prima.

Enter Posthumus alone.

Post. Yea b.l.o.o.d.y cloth, Ile keep thee: for I am wisht Thou should'st be colour'd thus. You married ones, If each of you should take this course, how many Must murther Wiues much better then themselues For wrying but a little? Oh Pisanio, Euery good Seruant do's not all Commands: No Bond, but to do iust ones. G.o.ds, if you Should haue 'tane vengeance on my faults, I neuer Had liu'd to put on this: so had you saued The n.o.ble Imogen, to repent, and strooke Me (wretch) more worth your Vengeance. But alacke, You s.n.a.t.c.h some hence for little faults; that's loue To haue them fall no more: you some permit To second illes with illes, each elder worse, And make them dread it, to the dooers thrift.

But Imogen is your owne, do your best willes, And make me blest to obey. I am brought hither Among th' Italian Gentry, and to fight Against my Ladies Kingdome: 'Tis enough That (Britaine) I haue kill'd thy Mistris: Peace, Ile giue no wound to thee: therefore good Heauens, Heare patiently my purpose. Ile disrobe me Of these Italian weedes, and suite my selfe As do's a Britaine Pezant: so Ile fight Against the part I come with: so Ile dye For thee (O Imogen) euen for whom my life Is euery breath, a death: and thus, vnknowne, Pittied, nor hated, to the face of perill My selfe Ile dedicate. Let me make men know More valour in me, then my habits show.

G.o.ds, put the strength o'th'Leonati in me: To shame the guize o'th' world, I will begin, The fashion lesse without, and more within.

Enter.

Scena Secunda.

Enter Lucius, Iachimo, and the Romane Army at one doore: and the Britaine Army at another: Leonatus Posthumus following like a poore Souldier. They march ouer, and goe out. Then enter againe in Skirmish Iachimo and Posthumus: he vanquisheth and disarmeth Iachimo, and then leaues him.

Iac. The heauinesse and guilt within my bosome, Takes off my manhood: I haue belyed a Lady, The Princesse of this Country; and the ayre on't Reuengingly enfeebles me, or could this Carle, A very drudge of Natures, haue subdu'de me In my profession? Knighthoods, and Honors borne As I weare mine) are t.i.tles but of scorne.

If that thy Gentry (Britaine) go before This Lowt, as he exceeds our Lords, the oddes Is, that we sca.r.s.e are men, and you are G.o.ddes.

Enter.

The Battaile continues, the Britaines fly, Cymbeline is taken: Then enter to his rescue, Bellarius, Guiderius, and Aruiragus.

Bel. Stand, stand, we haue th' aduantage of the ground, The Lane is guarded: Nothing rowts vs, but The villany of our feares

Gui. Arui. Stand, stand, and fight.

Enter Posthumus, and seconds the Britaines. They Rescue Cymbeline, and Exeunt.

Then enter Lucius, Iachimo, and Imogen.

Luc. Away boy from the Troopes, and saue thy selfe: For friends kil friends, and the disorder's such As warre were hood-wink'd

Iac. 'Tis their fresh supplies

Luc. It is a day turn'd strangely: or betimes Let's re-inforce, or fly.

Exeunt.

Scena Tertia.

Enter Posthumus, and a Britaine Lord.

Lor. Cam'st thou from where they made the stand?

Post. I did, Though you it seemes come from the Fliers?

Lo. I did

Post. No blame be to you Sir, for all was lost, But that the Heauens fought: the King himselfe Of his wings dest.i.tute, the Army broken, And but the backes of Britaines seene; all flying Through a strait Lane, the Enemy full-heart'd, Lolling the Tongue with slaught'ring: hauing worke More plentifull, then Tooles to doo't: strooke downe Some mortally, some slightly touch'd, some falling Meerely through feare, that the strait pa.s.se was damm'd With deadmen, hurt behinde, and Cowards liuing To dye with length'ned shame

Lo. Where was this Lane?

Post. Close by the battell, ditch'd, & wall'd with turph, Which gaue aduantage to an ancient Soldiour (An honest one I warrant) who deseru'd 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, then to commit such slaughter, With faces fit for Maskes, or rather fayrer Then those for preseruation cas'd, or shame) Made good the pa.s.sage, cryed to those that fled.

Our Britaines hearts dye flying, not our men, To darknesse fleete soules that flye backwards; stand, Or we are Romanes, and will giue you that Like beasts, which you shun beastly, and may saue But to looke backe in frowne: Stand, stand. These three, Three thousand confident, in acte as many: For three performers are the File, when all The rest do nothing. With this word stand, stand, Accomodated by the Place; more Charming With their owne n.o.blenesse, which could haue turn'd A Distaffe, to a Lance, guilded pale lookes; Part shame, part spirit renew'd, that some turn'd coward But by example (Oh a sinne in Warre, d.a.m.n'd in the first beginners) gan to looke The way that they did, and to grin like Lyons Vpon the Pikes o'th' Hunters. Then beganne A stop i'th' Chaser; a Retyre: Anon A Rowt, confusion thicke: forthwith they flye Chickens, the way which they stopt Eagles: Slaues The strides the Victors made: and now our Cowards Like Fragments in hard Voyages became The life o'th' need: hauing found the backe doore open Of the vnguarded hearts: heauens, how they wound, Some slaine before some dying; some their Friends Ore-borne i'th' former waue, ten chac'd by one, Are now each one the slaughter-man of twenty: Those that would dye, or ere resist, are growne The mortall bugs o'th' Field

Lord. This was strange chance: A narrow Lane, an old man, and two Boyes

Post. Nay, do not wonder at it: you are made Rather to wonder at the things you heare, Then to worke any. Will you Rime vpon't, And vent it for a Mock'rie? Heere is one: ''Two Boyes, an Oldman (twice a Boy) a Lane, ''Preseru'd the Britaines, was the Romanes bane

Lord. Nay, be not angry Sir

Post. Lacke, to what end?

Who dares not stand his Foe, Ile be his Friend: For if hee'l do, as he is made to doo, I know hee'l quickly flye my friendship too.

You haue put me into Rime

Lord. Farewell, you're angry.

Enter.

Post. Still going? This is a Lord: Oh n.o.ble misery To be i'th' Field, and aske what newes of me: To day, how many would haue giuen their Honours To haue sau'd their Carka.s.ses? Tooke heele to doo't, And yet dyed too. I, in mine owne woe charm'd Could not finde death, where I did heare him groane, Nor feele him where he strooke. Being an vgly Monster, 'Tis strange he hides him in fresh Cups, soft Beds, Sweet words; or hath moe ministers then we That draw his kniues i'th' War. Well I will finde him: For being now a Fauourer to the Britaine, No more a Britaine, I haue resum'd againe The part I came in. Fight I will no more, But yeeld me to the veriest Hinde, that shall Once touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter is Heere made by'th' Romane; great the Answer be Britaines must take. For me, my Ransome's death, On eyther side I come to spend my breath; Which neyther heere Ile keepe, nor beare agen, But end it by some meanes for Imogen.

Enter two Captaines, and Soldiers.

1 Great Iupiter be prais'd, Lucius is taken, 'Tis thought the old man, and his sonnes, were Angels

2 There was a fourth man, in a silly habit, That gaue th' Affront with them

1 So 'tis reported: But none of 'em can be found. Stand, who's there?

Post. A Roman, Who had not now beene drooping heere, if Seconds Had answer'd him

2 Lay hands on him: a Dogge, A legge of Rome shall not returne to tell What Crows haue peckt them here: he brags his seruice As if he were of note: bring him to'th' King.

Enter Cymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, Aruiragus, Pisanio, and Romane Captiues. The Captaines present Posthumus to Cymbeline, who deliuers him ouer to a Gaoler.

Scena Quarta.

Enter Posthumus, and Gaoler.

Gao. You shall not now be stolne, You haue lockes vpon you: So graze, as you finde Pasture

2.Gao. I, or a stomacke

Post. Most welcome bondage; for thou art a way (I thinke) to liberty: yet am I better Then one that's sicke o'th' Gowt, since he had rather Groane so in perpetuity, then be cur'd By'th' sure Physitian, Death; who is the key T' vnbarre these Lockes. My Conscience, thou art fetter'd More then my shanks, & wrists: you good G.o.ds giue me The penitent Instrument to picke that Bolt, Then free for euer. Is't enough I am sorry?

So Children temporall Fathers do appease; G.o.ds are more full of mercy. Must I repent, I cannot do it better then in Gyues, Desir'd, more then constrain'd, to satisfie If of my Freedome 'tis the maine part, take No stricter render of me, then my All.

I know you are more clement then vilde men, Who of their broken Debtors take a third, A sixt, a tenth, letting them thriue againe On their abatement; that's not my desire.

For Imogens deere life, take mine, and though 'Tis not so deere, yet 'tis a life; you coyn'd it, 'Tweene man, and man, they waigh not euery stampe: Though light, take Peeces for the figures sake, (You rather) mine being yours: and so great Powres, If you will take this Audit, take this life, And cancell these cold Bonds. Oh Imogen, Ile speake to thee in silence.

Solemne Musicke. Enter (as in an Apparation) Sicillius Leonatus, Father to Posthumus, an old man, attyred like a warriour, leading in his hand an ancient Matron (his wife, & Mother to Posthumus) with Musicke before them.

Then after other Musicke, followes the two young Leonati (Brothers to Posthumus) with wounds as they died in the warrs. They circle Posthumus round as he lies sleeping.

Sicil. No more thou Thunder-Master shew thy spight, on Mortall Flies: With Mars fall out with Iuno chide, that thy Adulteries Rates, and Reuenges.

Hath my poore Boy done ought but well, whose face I neuer saw: I dy'de whil'st in the Wombe he staide, attending Natures Law.

Whose Father then (as men report, thou Orphanes Father art) Thou should'st haue bin, and sheelded him, from this earth-vexing smart