Another Part of the Field. | |
| |
Enter POSTHUMUS and a British Lord. | |
| Lord. Cam’st thou from where they made the stand? | |
| Post. I did: | 4 |
| Though you, it seems, come from the fliers. | |
| Lord. I did. | |
| Post. No blame be to you, sir; for all was lost, | |
| But that the heavens fought. The king himself | 8 |
| 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 slaughtering, having work | 12 |
| More plentiful than tools to do ’t, struck down | |
| Some mortally, some slightly touch’d, some falling | |
| Merely through fear; that the strait pass was damm’d | |
| With dead men hurt behind, and cowards living | 16 |
| To die with lengthen’d shame. | |
| Lord. Where was this lane? | |
| Post. Close by the battle, ditch’d, and wall’d with turf; | |
| Which gave advantage to an ancient soldier, | 20 |
| An honest one, I warrant; who deserv’d | |
| So long a breeding as his white beard came to, | |
| In doing this for his country; athwart the lane, | |
| He, with two striplings,—lads more like to run | 24 |
| The country base than to commit such slaughter,— | |
| With faces fit for masks, or rather fairer | |
| Than those for preservation cas’d, or shame, | |
| Made good the passage; cried to those that fled, | 28 |
| ‘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, | 32 |
| 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!’ | 36 |
| 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 | 40 |
| But by example,—O! a sin of 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 | 44 |
| 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— | 48 |
| 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 | 52 |
| O’er-borne i’ the former wave; ten, chas’d 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. | 56 |
| Lord. This was strange chance: | |
| A narrow lane, an old man, and two boys! | |
| Post. Nay, do not wonder at it; you are made | |
| Rather to wonder at the things you hear | 60 |
| Than to work any. Will you rime upon ’t, | |
| And vent it for a mockery? Here is one: | |
| ‘Two boys, an old man twice a boy, a lane, | |
| Preserv’d the Britons, was the Romans’ bane.’ | 64 |
| Lord. Nay, be not angry, sir. | |
| Post. ’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, | 68 |
| I know he’ll quickly fly my friendship too. | |
| You have put me into rime. | |
| Lord. Farewell; you’re angry. [Exit. | |
| Post. Still going?—This is a lord! O noble misery! | 72 |
| To be i’ the field, and ask, ‘what news?’ of me! | |
| To-day how many would have given their honours | |
| To have sav’d their carcases! took heel to do ’t, | |
| And yet died too! I, in mine own woe charm’d, | 76 |
| 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’ the war. Well, I will find him; | |
| For being now a favourer to the Briton, | |
| No more a Briton, I have resum’d again | |
| The part I came in; fight I will no more, | 84 |
| But yield me to the veriest hind that shall | |
| Once touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter is | |
| Here made by the Roman; great the answer be | |
| Britons must take. For me, my ransom’s death; | 88 |
| On either side I come to spend my breath, | |
| Which neither here I’ll keep nor bear agen, | |
| But end it by some means for Imogen. | |
| |
Enter two British Captains, and Soldiers. | 92 |
| First Cap. Great Jupiter be prais’d! Lucius is taken. | |
| ’Tis thought the old man and his sons were angels. | |
| Sec. Cap. There was a fourth man, in a silly habit, | |
| That gave th’ affront with them. | 96 |
| First Cap. So ’tis reported; | |
| But none of ’em can be found. Stand! who is there? | |
| Post. A Roman, | |
| Who had not now been drooping here, if seconds | 100 |
| Had answer’d him. | |
| Sec. Cap. Lay hands on him; a dog! | |
| A lag of Rome shall not return to tell | |
| What crows have peck’d them here. He brags his service | 104 |
| As if he were of note: bring him to the king. | |
| |
Enter CYMBELINE, attended: BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, ARVIRAGUS, PISANIO, and Roman Captives. The Captains present POSTHUMUS to CYMBELINE, who delivers him over to a Gaoler; then exeunt omnes. | |
