K. of Port. Philip!
Phil. I'll tear his heart out that dares name that sound.
K. of Port. Sound a retreat.
Phil. Who's that? you tempt my sword, sir;
Continue this alarum, fight pell-mell;
Fight, kill, be damn'd. This fat-back, coward cardinal
Lies heavy on my shoulders; this, ay, this,
Shall fling him off. Sound a retreat? Zounds! you mad me!
Ambition plumes the Moor, whilst black despair,
Offering to tear from him the diadem
Which he usurps, makes him to cry at all,
And to act deeds beyond astonishment.
But Philip is the night that darks his glories:
This sword, yet reeking with his negro's blood,
Being grasp'd by equity and this strong arm,
Shall through and through.
All. Away, then!
Phil. From before me.
Stay, stand, stand fast: fight. A Moor, a Moor.
SCENE III.
Enter Eleazar, Zarack, Balthazar, Roderigo, Christofero, and others; they fight: Moors are all beat in. Exeunt omnes. Manet Eleazar, weary; a Moor lies slain.
Ele. O, for more work, more souls to post to hell,
That I might pile up Charon's boat so full,
Until it topple o'er! O, 'twould be sport
To see them sprawl through the black slimy lake.
Ha, ha! there's one going thither: sirrah! you,
You slave, who kill'd thee? How he grins! this breast,
Had it been temper'd and made proof like mine,
It never would have been a mark for fools
To hit afar off with their dastard bullets.
But thou didst well; thou knew'st I was thy lord,
And out of love and duty to me here,
Where I fell weary, thou laidst down thyself
To bear me up thus: God-a-mercy, slave,
A king for this shall give thee a rich grave.
As he sits down, enter Philip with a broken sword.