Cam’st thou from where they made the stand?
Did you come from where they made their stand?
Were you where they made their last stand?
were u at the last stand?
I did:
Though you, it seems, come from the fliers.
I was there. Though it seems you come from among the people who fled.
Yeah, I was there. Looks like you came from running away with everyone else.
i was. looks like u ran
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.
Don't blame you, sir. Everything was lost except that heaven itself fought for us. The King was left without his troops, the army was destroyed, and all we could see was the backs of Britons fleeing through a narrow lane. The enemy was so eager, tongues out with bloodlust, so much work they had more killing to do than tools to do it with. They struck down some fatally, some with slight wounds, some just falling from pure fear. The narrow pass was blocked up with dead and wounded men, and cowards stayed alive only to die with prolonged shame.
Don't blame you at all. We would've lost everything if heaven itself hadn't stepped in. The King lost his troops, our army fell apart, and all we saw was everyone running away through this narrow path. The enemy was crazy with blood-lust—they wanted to kill so badly that they ran out of people to kill. Some soldiers died, some got wounded, some just died of fear. The path got so jammed with dead bodies that cowards who survived are stuck living with shame.
dont blame u. everything lost except heaven helped us. king lost troops. army fled. enemies killed everyone fast
Where was this lane?
Where was this passage?
What location did this happen at?
where was the 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 to the battle, dug out and built up with dirt, which gave advantage to an old soldier—an honest one, I swear—who had earned his long life by his white beard, doing this for his country. Across the lane he stood with two young men (boys more likely to play games than kill like this, with beautiful faces fit for masks or beauty rather than being hidden out of shame), and they held the passage. They cried to those who fled: 'Our British hearts don't fly—our men stand firm. Go to darkness, souls that run away backward! Hold your ground, or we'll treat you like animals, which you cowardly avoid being like. Look back on us with shame. Stand, stand!' These three seemed like three thousand because they moved as an army—the three do the work while the rest do nothing. With just the word 'Stand, stand!' and helped by the place itself and more by their own noble character, which could have turned a woman's spinning-staff into a spear, they put shame aside and brought back spirit. Some cowards turned brave just by example—and that's a sin in war, cursed from the beginning—and they started to look the way the three did and grin like lions. Then the Romans who were chasing stopped in their tracks, began retreating, and soon there was a rout and chaos. They fled like chickens, abandoning the path where they'd soared like eagles. They became slaves to the strides the Britons had taken as victors. Our cowards, like food on a long voyage, became the sustenance that was needed. Finding the undefended hearts open, heavens, how they wounded! Some already dead, some dying, some with their friends killed in the first assault. Ten that were being chased by one man became ten killers of twenty each. Those who would die or resist became the deadly forces on the field.
Right by where the main fight was happening, they formed a barrier at a ditched-out spot reinforced with turf. This old soldier—completely reliable, I'm sure—had spent his whole life earning respect, and this was his moment to show it. He positioned himself there with a couple of young guys whose faces were far too pretty for the violence they were about to commit. They basically saved the whole army right there in that narrow passage. They were screaming at everyone who tried to bail: 'Britons don't flee like cowards! Don't act worse than animals and then look ashamed about it! Fight back where you stand!' Three people held the line like they were three thousand, which is how warfare works—a few heroes carry the day while others just watch. They inspired pure courage into the whole area. The way they carried themselves was so noble it was like they turned spindles into swords. Guys who were definitely going to run started fighting instead, and once a few turned around to fight, the whole mood shifted. The Romans got spooked and started backing away instead of advancing. Total reversal. What had been losing became winning. Some of our runaways turned into warriors and started winning battles. The Romans kept falling—some were already dead, some were still dying, friends were falling on top of dead friends. One guy who thought he was overpowering us turned into the underdog against twenty furious Britons. Everyone who wanted to survive or keep their dignity became a killing force on that field.
old man + 2 boys defended narrow lane. cried 'stand ur ground'. turned cowards brave. romans panicked and ran. got destroyed
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.
This was strange chance:
A narrow lane, an old man, and two boys.
That's an incredible story. A narrow lane, an old man, and two boys.
That's crazy. A narrow path, an old guy, and just two kids.
thats wild. narrow path. old man and 2 boys
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.’
Don't be surprised about it. You're made more to wonder about things you hear than to do anything yourself. Will you turn this into poetry and spread it as a joke? Here's one: 'Two boys, an old man—who was young twice—one lane; saved the Britons, ruined the Romans.'
Don't act surprised. You're the type to just listen to stories and talk about them, not actually do anything. You probably want to turn this into a poem and joke about it, right? Fine, here: 'Two boys, an old man twice over, a narrow lane saved Britain and killed Rome.'
dont act surprised. ur just a listener not a doer. here's ur poem: two boys an old man one lane saved britain killed rome
Nay, be not angry, sir.
Don't be angry, sir.
Please don't be mad.
dont be mad
’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.
What's the point? Whoever won't stand against his enemy, I'll be his friend. But if he does what he's built for, I know he'll run from my friendship too. You've made me so angry I'm talking in rhymes.
What does it matter? I'll be friends with any coward who won't fight his enemy. But honestly, if he does what he's meant to do, he'll run away from my friendship as fast as he did from battle. You've got me so mad I'm making poetry.
what does it matter. ul run from my friendship like u ran from battle. ur making me angry
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 leaving? What a lord! Oh, what terrible poverty it is to be at war and ask someone else 'What's the news?' Today, how many would have given up their honors to save their own skin! They ran to do it, and still died! Me, I'm trapped in my own grief and couldn't find death even when I heard him close by, couldn't feel him when he struck. Death is an ugly monster, so it's strange he hides himself in fancy cups, soft beds, and sweet words—or maybe he has more servants than war does, drawing his weapons. Well, I'll find him. Since I'm now helping Britain, I'm no longer British. I've taken back the Italian role I came with. I won't fight anymore, but I'll let the first farmhand who touches me take me prisoner. There's great slaughter here by the Romans; the Britons must give a great response. For me, my ransom is my death. On either side of this war, my breath will end—I won't save it or carry it forward, but I'll end it for Imogen.
Still going? What a commander! It's pathetic to be in a war and have to ask someone what's happening. Today how many guys would've given up everything just to run away with their lives? They ran and died anyway! I'm so miserable I can't even find death when I hear him nearby. Death is a disgusting thing, so it's weird he stays hidden in wine, beds, and nice words—or maybe he's got more helpers than war does. I'm going to find him. I switched sides to help Britain, so I'm not really Roman anymore. I've gone back to the role I played at first. I won't fight again. I'll just let the first nobody who grabs me take me prisoner. The Romans killed a lot of Britons, so Britons have to kill a lot of Romans back. For me, the price of getting captured is death. Either way, my life ends here—I'm spending it for Imogen.
cant find death even when hes close. im done fighting. first person can capture me. im spending my death on imogen
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.
Great Jupiter be prais’d! Lucius is taken.
’Tis thought the old man and his sons were angels.
Thank the gods! Lucius has been captured. People are saying the old man and his sons were angels.
Thank god! We captured Lucius. Everyone's saying the old guy and his kids were like angels or something.
lucius captured. old man and his kids seemed like angels
There was a fourth man, in a silly habit,
That gave th’ affront with them.
There was a fourth man dressed in plain clothes who fought alongside them.
There was a fourth guy dressed like a peasant who was fighting with them.
4th guy in peasant clothes fought with them
So ’tis reported;
But none of ’em can be found. Stand! who’s there?
That's what people say, but none of them can be found. Hold on! Who's there?
Yeah, that's what people are saying, but we can't find any of them. Wait! Who's there?
thats what ppl say but we cant find them. whos there?
A Roman,
Who had not now been drooping here if seconds
Had answer’d him.
A Roman. I wouldn't be here defeated now if I'd had reinforcements.
I'm a Roman. I wouldn't be standing here if I'd had backup.
im roman. wouldnt be here if i had backup
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.
Seize him—dog! Not a single Roman will escape to report what the crows have eaten here. He brags about his service as if he were someone of importance. Bring him to the King.
Grab this dog! No Roman's going to survive to tell what happened to these bodies. He acts like his service matters, like he's someone important. Take him to the King.
grab him. dog. no roman gets out alive to tell this. he acts important. to the king.
captives. The Captains present Posthumus to Cymbeline, who delivers
him over to a gaoler.
The captives are brought on stage. The Captains present Posthumus to Cymbeline, who hands him over to the jailer.
The prisoners are brought in. The Captains bring Posthumus before Cymbeline, who turns him over to the jailer.
prisoners brought in. captains show posthumus to cymbeline. he gets handed to the jailer.
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.