the field. Foure long hours this did hold,
In which more worke was done than can be told.

_Bel_. But let me tell your Father how the first feather
That Victory herselfe pluckt from her wings,
She stuck it in your Burgonet.

_Hub_. Brave still!

_Hen_. No, _Bellizarius_; thou canst guild thy honours
Borne[136] from the reeking breasts of _Affricans_,
When I aloof[137] stood wondering at those Acts
Thy sword writ in the battaile, which were such
Would make a man a souldier but to read 'em.

_Hub_. And what to read mine? is my booke claspt up?

_Bel_. No, it lyes open, where in texed letters read
Each Pioner [?] that your unseason'd valour
Had thrice ingag'd our fortunes and our men
Beyond recovery, had not this arme redeem'd you.

_Hub_. Yours?

_Bel_. For which your life was lost for doing more
Than from the Generals mouth you had command.

_Hub_. You fill my praise with froth, as Tapsters fill
Their cut-throat Cans; where, give me but my due,
I did as much as you, or you, or any.

_Bel_. Any?

_Hub_. Yes, none excepted.

_Bel_. The Prince was there.

_Hub_. And I was there: since you draw one another
I will turne Painter too and draw my selfe.
Was it not I that when the maine Battalia
Totter'd and foure great squadrons put to rout,
Then reliev'd them? and with this arme, this sword,
And this affronting brow put them to flight,
Chac'd em, slew thousands, tooke some few and drag'd em
As slaves, tyed to my saddle bow with Halters?

_Hen_. Yes, Sir, 'tis true; but, as he sayes, your fury
Left all our maine Battalia welnigh lost.
For had the foe but re-inforct againe
Our courages had beene seiz'd (?), any Ambuskado
Cut you and your rash troopes off; if--

_Hub_. What 'if'?
Envy, not honour, still inferres these 'ifs.'
It thriv'd and I returnd with Victory.

_Bel_. You?

_Hub_. I, _Bellizarius_, I; I found your troopes
Reeling and pale and ready to turne Cowards,
But you not in the head; when I (brave sir)
Charg'd in the Reere and shooke their battaile so
The Fever never left them till they fell.
I pulled the Wings up, drew the rascals on,
Clapt 'em and cry'd 'follow, follow.' This is the hand
First toucht the Gates, this foote first tooke the City;
This Christian Church-man snacht I from the Altar
And fir'd the Temple. 'Twas this sword was sheath'd
In panting bosomes both of young and old;
Fathers, sonnes,