Page 557 - Shakespeare - Vol. 4

A stop i’ th’ chaser; a retire: anon [40]
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 [45]
Of the unguarded hearts, heavens, how they wound!
Some slain before, some dying, some their friends

O’er-borne i’ th’ former wave, ten chas’d by one,
Are now each one the slaughter-man of twenty:
Those that would die, or ere resist, are grown [50]
The mortal bugs o’ th’ field.

LORD
This was strange chance:

A narrow lane, an old man, and two boys.

POSTHUMUS
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, [55]

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.

LORD
Nay, be not angry, sir.

POSTHUMUS
’Lack, to what end?

Who dares not stand his foe, I’ll be his friend: [60]
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.

LORD

Farewell, you’re angry.