_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. _King_. Bar out that fiend. _Onae_. I'le teare him with my nayles! Let me come in, let me come in! helpe, helpe me! _King_. Keepe her from following me: a gard! _Alanz_. They are ready, Sir. _King_. Let a quicke summons call our Lords together; This disease kills me. _Bal_. Sir, I would be private with you. _King_. Forbear us, but see the dores well guarded. [_Exeunt_. _Bal_. Will you, Sir, promise to give me freedome of speech? _King_. Yes, I will; take it, speake any thing: 'tis pardoned. _Bal_. You are a whoremaster: doe you send me to winne Townes for you abroad, and you lose a kingdome at home? _King_. What kingdome? _Bal_. The fayrest in the world, the kingdom of your Fame, your honour. _King_. Wherein? _Bal_. I'le be plaine with you: much mischiefe is done by the mouth of a Canon, but the fire begins at a little touch-hole: you heard what Nightingale sung to you even now? _King_. Ha, ha, ha! _Bal_. Angels err'd but once and fell; but you, Sir, spit in heaven's face every minute and laugh at it. Laugh still and follow your courses; doe; let your vices run like your kennels of hounds yelping after you, till they plucke downe the fayrest head in the heard, everlasting bliss. _King_. Any more? _Bal_. Take sinne as the English Snuffe Tobacco, and scornfully blow the smoke in the eyes of heaven; the vapour flyes up in clowds of bravery, but when 'tis out the coal is blacke (your conscience) and the pipe stinkes: a sea of Rose-water cannot sweeten your corrupted bosome. _King_. Nay, spit thy venome.