_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, mothers, virgins, wives and widowes: Like death I havocke cryed so long till I Had left no monuments of life or buildings But these poore ruins. What these brave Spirits did Was like to this, I must confesse 'tis true, But not beyond it. _King_. You have done nobly all. Nor let the Generall thinke I soyle his worth In that I raise this forward youth so neare Those honours he deserves from _Genzericke_; For he may live to serve my _Henrick_ thus, And growing vertue must not want reward. You both allow these deeds he so much boasts of? _Hen_. Yes, but not equal to the Generals.