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 mockery? Here is one:
'Two boys, an old man twice a boy, a lane,
the Britons, was the Romans' bane.'
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,
know he'll quickly fly my friendship too.
You have put me into rhyme.
Farewell; you're angry.
This is a lord! O noble misery,
To be i' the field, and ask 'what news?' of me!
To-day how many would have
given their honours
To have saved their carcasses! took heel to do't,
And yet died too! I, in mine own
Could not find death where I did hear him groan,
Nor feel him where he struck: being an
'Tis strange he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds,
Sweet words; or hath more ministers than
That draw his knives i' the war. Well, I will find him
For being now a favourer to the Briton,
a Briton, I have resumed again
The part I came in: fight I will no more,
But yield me to the veriest hind
Once touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter is
Here made by the Roman; great the answer
Britons must take. For me, my ransom's death;
On either side I come to spend my breath;
here I'll keep nor bear again,
But end it by some means for Imogen.
Enter two British Captains and Soldiers
Great Jupiter be praised! Lucius is taken.
'Tis thought the old man and his sons were angels.
There was a fourth man, in a silly habit,
That gave the affront with them.
So 'tis reported:
But none of 'em can be found. Stand! who's there?
Who had not now been drooping here, if seconds
Had answer'd him.
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