_Car._ Flye, ye buzzards, Ye have wings enough, ye fear: get thee gone, woman,
Shame tread upon thy heels; all's lost, all's lost, heark, Heark how the _Romans_ ring our knels. [_Ext. Bond., &c._
_Car._ No boy, th[y] fortune's mine, I must not leave thee; get behind me; shake not,
I'll breech ye, if ye do boy: Come, brave _Romans_, All is not lost yet.
_Jun._ Now I'll thank thee, _Caratach_. [_Fight. Drums._
_Car._ Thou art a Soldier: strike home, home, have at ye.
_Pen._ His blows fall like huge sledges on an anvil.
_Pen._ O _Drusus_, I have lost mine honor, lost my name, Lost all that was my light: these are true _Romans_, And I a _Britain_ coward, a base Coward; Guide me where nothing is but desolation, That I may never more behold the face Of Man, or Mankind know me: O blind Fortune, Hast thou abus'd me thus?
_Dru._ Good Sir, be comforted; It was your wisdom rul'd ye; pray ye go home, Your day is yet to come, when this great fortune Shall be but foil unto it. [_Retreat._
_Pen._ Fool, fool, Coward. [_Exit_ Penyus _and_ Drusus.
_Enter_ Swetonius, Demetrius, _Soldiers, Drum and Colours_.
_Swet._ Draw in, draw in: well have you fought, and worthy _Romes_ noble recompence; look to your wounds, The ground is cold and hurtful: the proud Queen Has got a Fort, and there she and her Daughters Defie us once again. To morrow morning Wee'll seek her out, and make her know, our Fortunes Stop at no stubborn walls: Come, sons of honor, True virtues heirs; thus hatch'd with _Britain_ blood, Let's march to rest, and set in gules like Suns. Beat a soft march, and each one ease his neighbours. [_Exeunt._
_Enter_ Petillius, Junius, Decius, Demetrius _singing_.
Dem. Junius _was this Captains name,_ _A lad for a lasses viewing,_
Pet. _Full black his eye, and plump his thigh,_
_Petill._ O my vex'd thief, art thou come home again? Are thy brains perfect?
_Petill._ Thy back-worm Quiet, and cast his sting, boy?
_Jun._ Dead, _Petillius_, Dead to all folly, and now my anger only.
_Pet._ Why, that's well said: hang _Cupid_ and his quiver, A drunken brawling Boy; thy honour'd saint Be thy ten shillings, _Junius_, there's the money, And there's the ware; square dealing: this but sweats thee Like a Mesh nag, and makes thee look pin buttock'd; The other runs thee whining up and down Like a pig in a storm, fills thy brains full of madness, And shews thee like a long _Lent_, thy brave body Turn'd to a tail of green-fish without butter.