Fly forth as thick as motes about the sun: When with their swords (flesh'd with the former fight) They hew their armour, and they cleave their casques,[375] Till streams of blood like rivers fill the downs; That being infected with the stench thereof, Surcloys the ground, and of a champion-land[376] Makes it a quagmire, where (knee-deep) they stand. Bloodthirsty Discord, with her snaky hair-- A fearful hag with her fire-darting eyes, Runs 'cross the squadrons with a smoky brand, And with her murd'ring whip encourageth The over-forward hands to blood and death. Bellona, fired with a quenchless rage, Runs up and down, and in the thickest throng Cuts, casts the ground, and madding makes a pool, Which in her rage free passage doth afford, That with our blood she may anoint her sword. Now we of our side urge them to retreat, And now before them we retire as fast, As on the Alps the sharp north-northeast[377] wind, Shaking a pine-tree with her greatest power, One while the top doth almost touch the earth, And then it riseth with a counterbuff. So did the armies press and charge each other, With selfsame courage, worth, and weapons too; And, prodigal of life for liberty, With burning hate let each at other fly. Thrice did the cornets of the soldiers (clear'd) Turn to the standard to be new-supplied; And thrice the best of both was fain to breathe; And thrice recomforted, they bravely ran, And fought as freshly as they first began. Like two fierce lions fighting in a desert, To win the love of some fair lioness, When they have vomited their long-grown rage, And prov'd each other's force sufficient, Passant regardant[378] softly they retire; Their jawbones dy'd with foaming froth and blood; Their lungs like sponges ramm'd within their sides; Their tongues discover'd, and their tails long-trailing; Till jealous rage (engendered with rest) Returns them sharper-set than at the first; And makes them couple, when they see their prize, With bristled backs and fire-sparkling eyes, Till tir'd or conquer'd, one submits or flies. Cæsar,[379] whose kinglike looks, like day-bright stars, Both comfort and encourage his to fight, March'd through the battle, laying still about him, And subtly mark'd whose hand was happiest; Who nicely did but dip his spear in blood, And who more roughly smear'd it to his fist; Who staggering fell with every feeble wound, And who more strongly pac'd it through the thick'st; Him he inflam'd and spurr'd, and fill'd with horror. As when Alecto, in the lowest hell, Doth breathe new heat within Orestes' breast, Till outward rage with inward grief begins A fresh remembrance of our former sins. For then (as if provok'd with pricking goads) Their warlike armies (fast lock'd foot to foot)