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SCENE V.
A Wood.
Enter Posthumus.
Post.
To-day, how many would have given their Honours
To've sav'd their Carkasses? 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 strook. This ugly Monster,
'Tis strange he hides him in fresh Cups, soft Beds,
Sweet Words; or hath more Ministers than we
That draw his Knives i'th' War. Well, I will find him;
No more a Britain, 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
On either Side. For me, my Ransom's Death,
I come to spend my Breath;
Which neither here I'll keep, nor bear again,
But end it by some means for Imogen.
[Exit.
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