Moore!
I'le honour thee: reach him a chair--that Table:
And now _Aeneas_-like let thine own Trumpet
Sound forth thy battell with those slavish Moores.

_Bal_. My musicke is a Canon; a pitcht field my stage; Furies the
Actors, blood and vengeance the scaene; death the story; a sword
imbrued with blood the pen that writes; and the Poet a terrible
buskind Tragical fellow with a wreath about his head of burning
match instead of Bayes.

_King_. On to the Battaile!

_Bal_. 'Tis here, without bloud-shed: This our maine Battalia, this
the Van, this the Vaw[189], these the wings: here we fight, there they
flye; here they insconce, and here our sconces lay 17 Moours on the
cold earth.

_King_. This satisfies mine eye, but now mine eare
Must have his musicke too; describe the battaile.

_Bal_. The Battaile? Am I come from doing to talking? The hardest part
for a Souldier to play is to prate well; our Tongues are Fifes, Drums,
Petronels, Muskets, Culverin and Canon; these are our Roarers; the
Clockes which wee goe by are our hands: thus we reckon tenne, our
swords strike eleven, and when steele targets of proofe clatter one
against another, then 'tis noone; that's the height and the heat of
the day of battaile.

_King_. So.

_Bal_. To that heat we came, our Drums beat, Pikes were shaken and
shiver'd, swords and Targets clash'd and clatter'd, Muskets ratled,
Canons roar'd, men dyed groaning, brave laced Jerkings and Feathers
looked pale, totter'd[190] rascals fought pell mell; here fell a wing,
there heads were tost like foot-balls; legs and armes quarrell'd in the
ayre and yet lay quietly on the earth; horses trampled upon heaps of
carkasses, Troopes of Carbines tumbled wounded from their horses; we
besiege Moores and famine us; Mutinies bluster and are calme. I vow'd
not to doff mine Armour, tho my flesh were frozen too't and turn'd into
Iron, nor to cut head nor beard till they yeelded; my hayres and oath
are of one length, for (with _Caesar_) thus write I mine owne story,
_Veni, vidi, vici_.

_King_. A pitch'd field quickly fought: our hand is thine
And 'cause thou shalt not murmur that thy blood
Was lavish'd forth for an ingrateful man,
Demand what we can give thee and 'tis thine.

(_Onaelia beats at the doore_.)

_Onae_. Let me come in! I'le kill that treacherous king,
The murderer of mine honour: let me come in!

_King_. What womans voyce is that?

_Omnes_. _Medina's_ Neece.

_Ki