Are up in arms, glittering in steel.
Spain. Where’s our lord general, Lorenzo, stout Andrea,
With whom I rank sprightly Horatio?
What! for shame, shall the Portugals
Trample the fields before you?
Gen. No, my liege, there’s time enough
To let out blood enough: tribute shall flow
Out of their bowels, and be tendered so.
Spain. Farewell, brave lords; my wishes are bequeath’d,
A nobler rank of spirits never breath’d.