SCENE II.

_Enter_ PHILIP _and_ CARDINAL.

PHIL. Move forward with your main battalion, Or else all's lost.

CAR. I will not move a foot.

PHIL. S'heart! will you lose the day?

CAR. You lose your wits, You're mad; it is no policy.

PHIL. You lie.

CAR. Lie!

PHIL. Lie! a pox upon't, cardinal, come on, Second the desperate vanguard which is mine, And where I'll die or win. Follow my sword The bloody way I lead it, or, by heaven, I'll play the devil, and mar all! we'll turn our backs Upon the Moors, and set on thee; ay, thee, Thee, cardinal! s'heart! thee.

CAR. Your desperate arm Hath almost thrust quite through the heart of hope: Our fortunes lie a-bleeding by your rash And violent onset.

PHIL. O, O, s'life! s'foot! will you [not] fight?

CAR. We will not hazard all upon one cast.

PHIL. You will not?

CAR. No.

PHIL. Coward!

CAR. By deeds I'll try. Whether your venomous tongue says true. Farewell; Courage shines both in this and policy.

[_Exit._

PHIL. To save thy skin whole, that's thy policy. You whoreson fat-chapp'd guts, Ill melt away That larded body by the heat of fight, Which I'll compel thee to, or else by flying: To work which I'll give way to the proud foe. Whilst I stand laughing to behold you run. Cardinal, I'll do't, I'll do't; a Moor, a Moor! Philip cries a Moor! holla! la! whoo!

_Enter_ KING OF PORTUGAL.

K. OF PORT. Prince Philip! Philip!

PHIL. Here: plague, where's the Moor?

K. OF PORT. The Moor's a devil: never did horrid fiend, Compell'd by some magician's mighty charm, Break through the prisons of the solid earth With more strange horror than this prince of hell, This damned negro, lion-like doth rush Through all, and spite of all knit opposition.

PHIL. Puh, puh! where, where? I'll meet him: where? You mad me! 'Tis not his arm That acts such wonders, but our cowardice. This cardinal, O, this cardinal is a slave.

_Enter_ CAPTAIN.

CAPT. Sound a retreat, or else the day is lost!

PHIL. I'll beat that dog to death that sounds retreat.

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.