Bac. Secur’d my self from being a publick Spectacle upon the common Theatre of Death.
Enter Daring and Soldiers.
Dar. Victory, Victory! they fly, they fly, where’s the victorious General?
Fear. Here,—taking his last Adieu.
Dar. Dying! Then wither all the Laurels on my Brows, for I shall never triumph more in War; where [are] the Wounds?
Fear. From his own Hand, by what he carried here, believing we had lost the Victory.
Bac. And is the Enemy put to flight, my Hero? Grasps his Neck.
Dar. All routed Horse and Foot; I plac’d an Ambush, and while they were pursuing you, my Men fell on behind, and won the day.
Bac. Thou almost makest me wish to live again, if I cou’d live now fair Semernia’s dead.—But oh—the baneful Drug is just and kind, and hastens me away—Now while you are Victors, make a Peace—with the English Council, and never let Ambition,—Love,—or Interest, make you forget, as I have done, your Duty and Allegiance—Farewel—a long Farewel— Dies embracing their Necks.
Dar. So fell the Roman Cassius, by mistake—