Читать книгу Cymbeline (The Unabridged Play) + The Classic Biography: The Life of William Shakespeare - William Shakespeare - Страница 34

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 destitute, 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 passe 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 passage, 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 Noblenesse, 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,

Damn’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 Noble 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 Carkasses? 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.