Cam’st thou from where they made the stand?
Cam’st thou from where they made the stand?
cam’st thou from where they made the stand?
cam’st thou from where they made the stand?...
I did:
Though you, it seems, come from the fliers.
I did: Though you, it seems, come from the fliers.
i did: though you, it seems, come from the fliers.
i did: though you, it seems, come from the fliers....
I did.
I did.
i did.
i did....
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, all 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.
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, all flying, Through a strait lane; the enemy, full-hearted, Lolling the tongue with slaught’ring, having work More plentiful than tools
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, all flying, through a strait lane; the enemy, full-hearted, lolling the tongue with slaught’ring, having work more plentiful than tools
no blame be to you, sir, for all was lost, but tha
Where was this lane?
Where was this lane?
where was this lane?
where was this lane?...
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,
The strides they victors made; and now our cowards,
Like fragments in hard voyages, became
The life o’ th’ need. Having found the back-door open
Of the unguarded hearts, heavens, how they wound!
Some slain before, some dying, some their friends
O’erborne i’ th’ former wave. Ten chas’d by one
Are now each one the slaughterman of twenty.
Those that would die or ere resist are grown
The mortal bugs o’ th’ field.
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
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
close by the battle, ditch’d, and wall’d with turf
This was strange chance:
A narrow lane, an old man, and two boys.
This was strange chance: A narrow lane, an old man, and two boys.
this was strange chance: a narrow lane, an old man, and two boys.
this was strange chance: a narrow lane, an old man...
Posthumus's account of the lane stand is extraordinary verse — compressed, kinetic, building from rout to reversal in a single sustained speech. But its moral structure is even more interesting than its language. He tells the whole story in the third person, without identifying himself. This is not modesty: it is a kind of self-erasure that mirrors the 'fashion less without and more within' resolution from 5-1. Posthumus has decided he is worthless; his heroism is therefore attributable to others, not to himself. He sees Belarius and the princes clearly and admires them without reservation. He cannot see himself with any accuracy at all. This is not humility — it is a form of moral blindness that the play will have to correct.
Nay, do not wonder at it; you are made
Rather to wonder at the things you hear
Than to work any. Will you rhyme upon’t,
And vent it for a mock’ry? Here is one:
‘Two boys, an old man (twice a boy), a lane,
Preserv’d the Britons, was the Romans’ bane.’
no, do not wonder at it; you are made Rather to wonder at the things you hear Than to work any. Will you rhyme upon’t, And vent it for a mock’ry? Here is one: ‘Two boys, an old man (twice a boy), a lane, Preserv’d the Britons, was the Romans’ bane.’
no, do not wonder at it; you are made rather to wonder at the things you hear than to work any. will you rhyme upon’t, and vent it for a mock’ry? here is one: ‘two boys, an old man (twice a boy), a lane, preserv’d the britons, was the romans’ bane.’
no, do not wonder at it; you are made rather to wo
Nay, be not angry, sir.
Nay, be not angry, sir.
nay, be not angry, sir.
nay, be not angry, sir....
’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,
I know he’ll quickly fly my friendship too.
You have put me into rhyme.
’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, I know he’ll quickly fly my friendship too. You have put me into rhyme.
’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, i know he’ll quickly fly my friendship too. you have put me into rhyme.
’lack, to what end? who dares not stand his foe i’...
Farewell; you’re angry.
Farewell; you’re angry.
farewell; you’re angry.
farewell; you’re angry....
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.
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 wher
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 wher
still going? this is a lord! o noble misery, to be
Great Jupiter be prais’d! Lucius is taken.
’Tis thought the old man and his sons were angels.
Great Jupiter be prais’d! Lucius is taken. ’Tis thought the old man and his sons were angels.
great jupiter be prais’d! lucius is taken. ’tis thought the old man and his sons were angels.
great jupiter be prais’d! lucius is taken. ’tis th...
A character who actively wants to die creates a specific dramatic problem: how do you generate suspense about someone who has chosen to stop surviving? Shakespeare solves it by making Posthumus's death-seeking both heroic and misguided simultaneously. His surrender to the British captains is technically sensible as penance — but it is built on the false belief that Imogen is dead. If he knew the truth, he would not be engineering his execution. The play needs him alive for the final scene, so Providence — which has been quietly managing things throughout — has to intervene. The Jupiter vision in the next scene is not just a theatrical spectacle: it is the mechanism by which the plot keeps Posthumus alive long enough to learn he was wrong.
There was a fourth man, in a silly habit,
That gave th’ affront with them.
There was a fourth man, in a silly habit, That gave th’ affront with them.
there was a fourth man, in a silly habit, that gave th’ affront with them.
there was a fourth man, in a silly habit, that gav...
So ’tis reported;
But none of ’em can be found. Stand! who’s there?
So ’tis reported; But none of ’em can be found. Stand! who’s there?
so ’tis reported; but none of ’em can be found. stand! who’s there?
so ’tis reported; but none of ’em can be found. st
A Roman,
Who had not now been drooping here if seconds
Had answer’d him.
A Roman, Who had not now been drooping here if seconds Had answer’d him.
a roman, who had not now been drooping here if seconds had answer’d him.
a roman, who had not now been drooping here if sec...
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.
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.
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.
lay hands on him; a dog! a leg of rome shall not r...
The Reckoning
This scene is two things at once: a brilliant piece of narrative verse and a deeply ironic act of deliberate self-destruction. Posthumus gives a stirring eyewitness account of the battle's turning point — three men holding a narrow lane and turning the whole tide of war — without revealing that he was the fourth. Then he actively seeks capture and execution. The British lord who listens has no idea he's hearing the deeds of the man in front of him. The audience does. When the captains report the 'fourth man in a silly habit' who helped with the lane, we know they mean Posthumus. The scene ends with the hero of the battle chained as a prisoner of the side he saved.
If this happened today…
The person who anonymously pulled a company back from the brink during a crisis — covering for colleagues, making the critical calls, working unpaid through the weekend — files a ticket requesting their own termination on Monday morning. When a colleague asks what happened in the crisis, they give a vivid, accurate account of everything that went right without mentioning themselves at all. A different colleague mentions there was apparently a fourth anonymous person involved. The first colleague nods and says nothing. Then the HR email arrives confirming their dismissal request is being processed. They say: good.