_Hen_. Then, Royal Father, thus: Before our Troopes had reacht the _Affrick_ bounds, Wearied with tedious Marches and those dangers Which waite on glorious Warre, the _Affricans_ A farre had heard our Thunder, whilst their Earth Did feele an earth-quake in the peoples feares Before our Drummes came near them. Yet, spight of terrour, They fortifi'd their Townes, cloathed all their fields With warres best bravery, armed Souldiers. At this we made a stand, for their bold troopes Affronted us with steele, dar'd us to come on And nobly fierd our resolution. _King_. So, hasten; there's in me a battaile too; Be quicke, or I shall fall. _Hen_. Forefend it heaven. Now, _Bellizarius_, come; here stand, just here; And on him, I beseech you, fixe your eye, For you have much to pay to this brave man. _Hub_. Nothing to me? _Hen_. Ile give you him in wonder. _Hub_. Hang him out in a painted cloth for a monster. _Bel_. My Lord, wrong not your selfe to throw on me The honours which are all yours. _Hub_. Is he the Divell? all! _Bel_. Cast not your eyes on me, Sir, but on him; And seale this to your soule: never had King A Sonne that did to his Crowne more honours bring. _Hen_. Stay, _Bellizarius_; I'me too true to honour To scant it in the blazing: though to thee All that report can render leaves thee yet-- _Hub_. A brave man: you are so too, you both fought; And I stood idle? _Hen_. No, Sir. _Hub_. Here's your battaile then, and here's your conquest: What need such a coyle? _Bel_. Yet, _Hubert_, it craves more Arethmaticke Than in one figure to be found. _King_. _Hubert_, thou art too busie. _Hub_. So was I in the battaile. _King_. Prethee peace. _Hen_. The Almarado was on poynt to sound; But then a Herald from their Tents flew forth, Being sent to question us for what we came; And [At?] which, I must confesse, being all on fire We cryed for warre and death. Backe rode the Herald As lightning had persu'd him. But the Captaines, Thinking us tir'd with marching, did conceive Rest would make difficult what easie now Quicke charge might drive us to. So, like a storme Beating upon a wood of lustie Pines, Which though they shake they keepe their footing fast, Our pikes their horses stood. Hot was the day In which whole fields of men were swept away, As by sharpe Sithes are cut the golden corne And in as short time. It was this mans sword Hew'd ways to danger; and when danger met him He charm'd it thence, and when it grew agen He drove it back agen, till at the length It lost 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!