Read it through once

Post. Still going? This is a Lord: Oh Noble misery To be i'th' Field, and aske what newes of me: To day, how many would haue giuen their Honours To haue sau'd their Carkasses? Tooke heele to doo't, And yet dyed too. I, in mine owne woe charm'd Could not finde death, where I did heare him groane, Nor feele him where he strooke. Being an vgly Monster, 'Tis strange he hides him in fresh Cups, soft Beds, Sweet words; or hath moe ministers then we That draw his kniues i'th' War. Well I will finde him: For being now a Fauourer to the Britaine, No more a Britaine, I haue resum'd againe The part I came in. Fight I will no more, But yeeld me to the veriest Hinde, that shall Once touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter is Heere made by'th' Romane; great the Answer be Britaines must take. For me, my Ransome's death, On eyther side I come to spend my breath; Which neyther heere Ile keepe, nor beare agen, But end it by some meanes for Imogen. Enter two Captaines, and Soldiers.