Hub. Hang him out in a painted cloth for a monster.
Bel. My Lord, wrong not your selfe to throw on me The honours which are all yours.
Hub. Is he the Divell? all!
Bel. Cast not your eyes on me, Sir, but on him; And seale this to your soule: never had King A Sonne that did to his Crowne more honours bring.
Hen. Stay, Bellizarius; I'me too true to honour To scant it in the blazing: though to thee All that report can render leaves thee yet—
Hub. A brave man: you are so too, you both fought; And I stood idle?
Hen. No, Sir.
Hub. Here's your battaile then, and here's your conquest: What need such a coyle?
Bel. Yet, Hubert, it craves more Arethmaticke Than in one figure to be found.
King. Hubert, thou art too busie.