Sold. From the turret of the fort,
By the rising clouds of dust, through which, like lightning,
The splendour of bright arms sometimes brake through,
I did descry some forces making towards us;
And, from the camp, as emulous of their glory,
The general, (for I know him by his horse,)
And bravely seconded, encounter'd them.
Their greetings were too rough for friends; their swords,
And not their tongues, exchanging courtesies.
By this the main battalias are join'd;
And, if you please to be spectators of
The horrid issue, I will bring you where,
As in a theatre, you may see their fates
In purple gore presented.
Fer. Heaven, if yet thou art
Appeased for my wrong done to Aurelia,
Take pity of my miseries! Lead the way, friend.
[Exeunt.
SCENE V.
The same. A Plain near the Camp.
A long Charge; after which, a Flourish for Victory: then enter Gonzaga, Jacomo, and Roderigo, wounded; Bertoldo, Gasparo, and Antonio, Prisoners. Officers and Soldiers.
Gonz. We have them yet, though they cost us dear. This was
Charged home, and bravely follow'd. Be to yourselves [To Jacomo and Roderigo.
True mirrors to each other's worth; and, looking
With noble emulation on his wounds,
[Points to Bert.
The glorious livery of triumphant war,
Imagine these with equal grace appear
Upon yourselves. The bloody sweat you have suffer'd
In this laborious, nay, toilsome harvest,
Yields a rich crop of conquest; and the spoil,
Most precious balsam to a soldier's hurts,
Will ease and cure them. Let me look upon
[Gasparo and Antonio are brought forward.
The prisoners' faces. Oh, how much transform'd
From what they were! O Mars! were these toys fashion'd
To undergo the burthen of thy service?
The weight of their defensive armour bruised
Their weak effeminate limbs, and would have forced them,
In a hot day, without a blow to yield.
Ant. This insultation shows not manly in you.
Gonz. To men I had forborne it; you are women,
Or, at the best, loose carpet-knights[156]. What fury
Seduced you to exchange your ease in court
For labour in the field? Perhaps you thought
To charge, through dust and blood, an armed foe,
Was but like graceful running at the ring
For a wanton mistress' glove; and the encounter,
A soft impression on her lips:—but you
Are gaudy butterflies, and I wrong myself
In parling with you.
Gasp. Vœ victis! now we prove it.
Rod. But here's one fashion'd in another mould,
And made of tougher metal.