[Exit.
Phil. For that then, O, [Touching his sword] that it had nail'd thy heart
Up to the pommel to the earth; come, arm me.
Ha! 'sfoot! when all our swords were royally gilt with blood,
When with red sweat, that trickled from our wounds,
We had dearly earn'd a victory; when hell
Had from their hinges heav'd off her iron gates,
To bid the damn'd Moor and the devils enter,
Then to lose all, then to sound base retreat;
Why, soldiers, ha!
1st Sol. I am glad of it, my lord.
Phil. Ha, glad! art glad I am dishonoured,
That thou and he [have me] dishonoured?
1st Sol. Why, my lord,
I am glad that you so cleanly did come off.
Phil. Thou hast a lean face and a carrion heart;
A plague on him and thee too: then, 'sheart! then
To crack the very heart-strings of our army—
To quarter it in pieces—I could tear my hair,
And in cursing spend my soul;
Cardinal! what, Judas! come, we'll fight,
Till there be left but one; if I be he,
I'll die a glorious death.
1st Sol. So will I, I hope, in my bed.
[Aside.]
2d Sol. Till there be but one left, my lord? Why, that's now; for all our fellows are crawled home; some with one leg, some ne'er an arm, some with their brains beaten out, and glad they 'scaped so.
Phil. But, my dear countrymen, you'll stick to me?