With dart or sword, or shaft, or pike, or spear;
The weapons hide the heavens; a night compos’d
Of warlike engines overshades the field.
From every side these fatal signs are sent,
And boist’rous bangs with thumping thwacks fall thick.
Had both these camps been of usurping kings,
Had every man thereof a Mordred been,
No fiercelier had they fought for all their crowns.
The murthers meanless wax’d, no art in fight,
Nor way to ward nor try each other’s skill.