Chapter 14

_Enter some of_ Philip’s _Party running over the Stage, pursued by_ Philip, Alonzo, Sebastian, Antonio, _and some few Officers more_.

_Alon_. Do not pursue ‘em, Sir, such coward Slaves Deserve not Death from that illustriate Hand.

_Phil_. Eternal Plagues consume ‘em in their flight; Oh, this damn’d coward Cardinal has betray’d us! When all our Swords were nobly dy’d in Blood, When with red Sweat that trickled from our Wounds We’ad dearly earn’d the long disputed Victory, Then to lose all, then to sound base Retreat, It swells my Anger up to perfect Madness.

_Alon_. Indeed ‘twas wondrous strange.

_Sebast_. I’m glad, Sir--

_Phil_. Art glad of it? art glad we are abandon’d? That I, and thou have lost the hopeful’st Day--

_Sebast_. Great Sir, I’m glad that you came off alive.

_Phil_. Thou hast a lean Face--and a carrion Heart-- A plague upon the Moor, and thee--Oh, _Alonzo_, To run away--follow’d by all the Army! Oh, I cou’d tear my Hair, and curse my Soul to Air! --Cardinal--thou Traitor, _Judas_, that would’st sell Thy God again, as thou hast done thy Prince. --But come--we’re yet a few, And we will fight till there be left but one-- If I prove him, I’ll die a glorious death. Ant. Yes, but the Cardinal has took pious Care It shall be in our Beds.

_Sebast_. We are as bad as one already, Sir; for all our Fellows are crawl’d home, some with ne’er a Leg, others with ne’er a Arm, some with their Brains beat out, and glad they escaped so.

_Phil_. But, my dear Countrymen, you’ll stick to me.

_1 Sold_. Ay, wou’d I were well off-- [_Aside_.

_Phil_. Speak, stout _Sceva_, wilt thou not?

_1 Sold. Sceva_, Sir, who’s that?

_Phil_. A gallant _Roman_, that fought by _Caesar’s_ side, Till all his Body cover’d o’er with Arrows, Shew’d like a monstrous Porcupine.

_1 Sold_. And did he die, Sir?

_Phil_. He wou’d not but have dy’d for Caesar’s Empire.

_1 Sold_. Hah--why, Sir, I’m none of _Sceva_, but honest _Diego_, yet would as willingly die as he, but that I have a Wife and Children; and if I die they beg.

_Phil_. For every drop of Blood which thou shalt lose, I’ll give thy Wife--a Diadem.

_Sold_. Stark mad, as I am valiant!

_Enter_ Card. _Officers and Soldiers_: Philip _offers to run on him, is held by_ Alonzo.

_Phil_. Oh Heav’n! is not that the Cardinal? Traitor, how dar’st thou tempt my Rage, and Justice?

_Card_. Your Pardon, Sir, I come in humble Love To offer happy Peace.

_Phil_. Was that thy aim when base Retreat was sounded? Oh, thou false Cardinal--let me go, _Alonzo_-- Death! offer happy Peace! no, offer War, Bring Fire and Sword--Hell and Damnation-Peace! Oh, damn your musty Peace--No, will you fight and cry, Down with the Moor! and then I’ll die in peace. I have a Heart, two Arms, a Soul, a Head, I’ll hazard these--I can but hazard all-- Come--I will kneel to thee--and be thy Slave-- [_Kneels_. I’ll let thee tread on me, do any thing, So this damn’d Moor may fall.

_Card_. Yes, Sir, he shall--

_Phil_. Gods! shall he--thy noble Hand upon’t, And for this Promise, take my grateful Heart. [_Embraces him_. --Shall _Abdelazer_ fall?

_Card_. Yes, upon thee-- Like the tall Ruins of a falling Tower, To crush thee into Dust-- [_As they embrace, the Guards seize him and the rest_. Traitor and Bastard, I arrest thee of High-Treason.

_Phil_. Hah!--Traitor!--and Bastard--and from thee! [_They hold_ Philip’s _Hands_.

_Card_. Guards, to your Hands the Prisoner is committed. There’s your Warrant--_Alonzo_, you are free. [_Ex_. Card.

_Phil_. Prithee lend me one Hand--to wipe my Eyes, And see who ‘tis dares authorize this Warrant: --The Devil and his Dam!--the Moor and Queen! Their Warrant!--Gods! _Alonzo_, must we obey it? Villains, you cannot be my Jailors; there’s no Prison, No Dungeon deep enough; no Gate so strong, To keep a Man confin’d--so mad with Wrong. --Oh, dost thou weep, _Alonzo_?

_Alon_. I wou’d fain shed a Tear, But from my Tears so many Show’rs are gone, They are too poor to pay your Sorrow’s Tribute; There is no Remedy, we must to Prison.

_Phil_. Yes, and from thence to Death-- I thought I should have had a Tomb hung round With tatter’d Ensigns, broken Spears and Javelins; And that my Body, with a thousand Wounds, Shou’d have been borne on some triumphant Chariot, With solemn Mourning, Drums, and Trumpets sounding; Whilst all the wondring World with Grief and Envy, Had wish’d my glorious Destiny their own: But now, _Alonzo_--like a Beast I fall, And hardly Pity waits my Funeral.

[_Exeunt_.