Swept all before them. Thus alarmed, he left us;
Marched homeward; met, and fought them; nay, and lived
To say, the field is mine!
Panth. Died of his wounds?
Cœn. Not so; but, straining loud his feeble voice
To animate his soldiers, broke a vein,
And, in a purple vomit, poured his soul.
Panth. O blessed, blessed Cœnus, for this happy news!
[Embraces Cœnus.
Cleom. O, wretch! O, born to all misfortunes! cursed,