The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated) (846 page)

Enter POSTHUMUS alone, with a bloody handkerchief

POSTHUMUS.

Yea, bloody cloth, I'll keep thee; for I wish'd

Thou shouldst be colour'd thus. You married ones,

If each of you should take this course, how many

Must murder wives much better than themselves

For wrying but a little! O Pisanio!

Every good servant does not all commands;

No bond but to do just ones. Gods! if you

Should have ta'en vengeance on my faults, I never

Had liv'd to put on this; so had you saved

The noble Imogen to repent, and struck

Me, wretch more worth your vengeance. But alack,

You snatch some hence for little faults; that's love,

To have them fall no more. You some permit

To second ills with ills, each elder worse,

And make them dread it, to the doer's thrift.

But Imogen is your own. Do your best wills,

And make me blest to obey. I am brought hither

Among th' Italian gentry, and to fight

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,

Hear patiently my purpose. I'll disrobe me

Of these Italian weeds, and suit myself

As does a Britain peasant. So I'll fight

Against the part I come with; so I'll die

For thee, O Imogen, even for whom my life

Is every breath a death. And thus unknown,

Pitied nor hated, to the face of peril

Myself I'll dedicate. Let me make men know

More valour in me than my habits show.

Gods, put the strength o' th' Leonati in me!

To shame the guise o' th' world, I will begin

The fashion- less without and more within.

Exit

Yes, bloody cloth, I'll keep you; for I wanted

you to be coloured like this. You married ones,

if each of you followed this path, how many

would murder wives much better than themselves

for straying just a little! Oh Pisanio!

A good servant should not follow all orders;

you are only obliged to do the just ones. Gods! If you

would have punished my thoughts, I never

would have lived to start this; then you would have saved

the noble Imogen to repent what she had done, and hit

me, a wretch more deserving of punishment. But alas,

you take the lives of some for small offences; that's out of love,

so they can fall no further. Others you allow

to pile sin upon sin, each one getting worse,

until in the end they despise it, to their benefit.

But now you have Imogen. Do what you think is best,

and give me the privilege of obeying. I have come here

with the Italian noblemen, to fight

against my lady's kingdom. Britain, it's enough

that I have killed your mistress; peace!

I'll do you no harm. Therefore, good heavens,

listen patiently to my plan. I'll take off

these Italian clothes, and dress myself

as a British peasant. So I will fight

against the ones I came with; that way I'll die

for you, oh Imogen, who has made my life

a living death. And so disguised,

neither pitied nor hated, I'll throw myself

into the face of danger. Let me show men

more bravery than my clothes would make them expect.

Gods, put the strength of the Leonati in me!

I'll begin to shame the opinions of the world,

showing a brave heart can beat under shabby clothes.

Enter LUCIUS, IACHIMO, and the Roman army at one door, and the British army at another, LEONATUS POSTHUMUS following like a poor soldier. They march over and go out. Alarums. Then enter again, in skirmish, IACHIMO and POSTHUMUS. He vanquisheth and disarmeth IACHIMO, and then leaves him

IACHIMO.

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

The sorrow and guilt within my heart

quite unmans me. I have betrayed a lady,

the Princess of this country, and the country's air

has made me weak in revenge; otherwise how could this peasant,

one of nature's lowest things, have beaten me

in my own profession? Knighthoods and medals such as

I wear are just mockeries.

If your noblemen, Britain, are as for above

this lout as he is above our lords, it must be

that we are hardly men, and you are gods.

BELARIUS.

Stand, stand! We have th' advantage of the ground;

The lane is guarded; nothing routs us but

The villainy of our fears.

Stand, stand! We hold the best position;

the road is guarded; nothing can beat us except

giving in to our own fears.

GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS.

Stand, stand, and fight!

Re-enter POSTHUMUS, and seconds the Britons; they rescue

CYMBELINE, and exeunt. Then re-enter LUCIUS and IACHIMO,

 with IMOGEN

Stand, stand and fight!

LUCIUS.

Away, boy, from the troops, and save thyself;

For friends kill friends, and the disorder's such

As war were hoodwink'd.

Get away, boy, from the troops, and save yourself;

friends are killing friends, there's such chaos it's as if

war was blindfolded.

IACHIMO.

'Tis their fresh supplies.

Here come their reinforcements.

LUCIUS.

It is a day turn'd strangely; or betimes

Let's reinforce or fly.

Exeunt

The battle has turned strangely; we must either

renew the attack or flee.

Enter POSTHUMUS and a Britain LORD

LORD.

Cam'st thou from where they made the stand?

Have you come from where they made their stand?

POSTHUMUS.

I did:

Though you, it seems, come from the fliers.

I did:

though you, it seems, come from those who fled.

LORD.

I did.

I did.

POSTHUMUS.

No blame be to you, sir, for all was lost,

But that the heavens fought. The King himself

Of his wings destitute, the army broken,

And but the backs of Britons seen, an flying,

Through a strait lane- the enemy, full-hearted,

Lolling the tongue with slaught'ring, having work

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

To die with length'ned shame.

I don't blame you, sir, for all was lost,

but the gods fought for us. The King himself

had lost both wings, the army was broken,

and all that could be seen of Britons was their backs

as they ran away down a straight road–the enemy, brave,

were panting with so much slaughter, having more

to do than they had tools to do it, they struck some

down dead, some are just wounded, some died

just through fear, so that the straight road was blocked

with dead men wounded from behind, and cowards

who live to die in shame.

LORD.

Where was this lane?

Where was this road?

POSTHUMUS.

Close by the battle, ditch'd, and wall'd with turf,

Which gave advantage to an ancient soldier-

An honest one, I warrant, who deserv'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 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

'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

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!'

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

But by example- O, a sin in war

Damn'd in the first beginners!- gan to look

The way that they did and to grin like lions

Upon the pikes o' th' hunters. Then began

A stop i' th' chaser, a retire; anon

A rout, confusion thick. Forthwith they fly,

Chickens, the way which they stoop'd eagles; slaves,