Lar. Oh Noble Fellow!
Who sensibly out-dares his sencelesse Sword,
And when it bowes, stand'st vp: Thou art left Martius,
A Carbuncle intire: as big as thou art
Weare not so rich a Iewell. Thou was't a Souldier
Euen to Calues wish, not fierce and terrible
Onely in strokes, but with thy grim lookes, and
The Thunder-like percussion of thy sounds
Thou mad'st thine enemies shake, as if the World
Were Feauorous, and did tremble.
Enter Martius bleeding, assaulted by the Enemy.
1.Sol. Looke Sir
Lar. O 'tis Martius.
Let's fetch him off, or make remaine alike.
They fight, and all enter the City.
Enter certaine Romanes with spoiles.
1.Rom. This will I carry to Rome
2.Rom. And I this
3.Rom. A Murrain on't, I tooke this for Siluer.
Exeunt.
Alarum continues still a-farre off.