The forlorn soldier that so nobly fought

Cymbeline
The forlorn soldier that so nobly fought,
He would have well becomed this place and graced
The thankings of a king.
Posthumus
I am, sir,
The soldier that did company these three
In poor beseeming; ’twas a fitment for
The purpose I then followed. That I was he,
Speak, Iachimo. I had you down and might
Have made you finish.

The power that I have on you is to spare you;
The malice towards you to forgive you.

Iachimo, kneeling
I am down again,
But now my heavy conscience sinks my knee,
As then your force did. Take that life, beseech you,
Which I so often owe; but your ring first,
And here the bracelet of the truest princess
That ever swore her faith.
He holds out the ring and bracelet.
Posthumus
Kneel not to me.
The power that I have on you is to spare you;
The malice towards you to forgive you. Live
And deal with others better.
Cymbeline
Nobly doomed.
We’ll learn our freeness of a son-in-law:
Pardon’s the word to all.
 Iachimo rises.