LORD.
Farewell; you’re angry.
[Exit.]
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 honours
To have sav’d their carcasses! took heel to do’t,
And yet died too! I, in mine own woe charm’d,
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 moe ministers than we
That draw his knives i’ th’ 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,
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,
Which neither here I’ll keep nor bear again,
But end it by some means for Imogen.
Enter two British Captains and soldiers.
FIRST CAPTAIN.
Great Jupiter be prais’d! Lucius is taken.
’Tis thought the old man and his sons were angels.
SECOND CAPTAIN.
There was a fourth man, in a silly habit,
That gave th’ affront with them.
FIRST CAPTAIN.
So ’tis reported;
But none of ’em can be found. Stand! who’s there?
POSTHUMUS.
A Roman,
Who had not now been drooping here if seconds
Had answer’d him.
SECOND CAPTAIN.
Lay hands on him; a dog!
A leg of Rome shall not return to tell
What crows have peck’d them here. He brags his service,
As if he were of note. Bring him to th’ King.
Enter Cymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, Pisanio and Roman captives. The Captains present Posthumus to Cymbeline, who delivers him over to a gaoler.