Arth. He doth fight fiercely.
Crow. Then will I meet him. Victor to victor, we will close together. Ho! forward!
[Another Officer enters.]
Offi. The musketry of Belial hath mowed our ranks, and the sons of Zeruiah—
Crom. Tush, tell me not of Zeruiah, or, by the Eternal, I will smite thee! Speak in English.
Offi. The Scotch are in disorder. Lucas, and Porter, and the malignant Goring are playing havoc with them. Newcastle, with his white coats, is winning on us at the pike's point.
Crom. That's what is done. What is to do? What says the General?
Offi. That you charge Rupert.
Crom. Why did you not speak sooner?
I am dead
To hear you drawl thus. Righteous Lambert, on!
Bring up the regiments.
Tell brave Frizell,
He shall see sport anon—
[A Soldier gives him his morion.]