Alon. The Moor—a Devil—never did Fiend of Hell,
Compell’d by some Magician’s Charms,
Break thro the Prison of the folded Earth
With more swift Horrour, than this Prince of Fate
Breaks thro our Troops in spite of Opposition.
Phil. Death! ‘tis not his single Arm that works the Wonders, But our Cowardice—Oh, this Dog Cardinal!
Enter Antonio.
Ant. Sound a Retreat, or else the Day is lost.
Phil. I’ll beat that Cur to Death that sounds Retreat.
Enter Sebastian.
Sebast. Sound a Retreat.
Phil. Who is’t that tempts my Sword?—continue the Alarm, Fight on Pell-mell—fight—kill—be damn’d—do any thing But sound Retreat—Oh, this damn’d Coward Cardinal! [Exeunt.
The noise of fighting near; after a little while enter Philip again.
Phil. Not yet, ye Gods! Oh, this eternal Coward!