CAS. But the assailants are the flower of Italy, Back'd with four hundred Gallic horse, all tried And gallant troops, join'd in one martial body, To give a fuller stroke; when we defendants, Scatter'd along, can weak resistance make; Plainness of ground affording us no shelter. BEL. For what serve sart and engines, mounds and trenches, But to correct the nature of a plain? A few on firm land may keep out a million Weaken'd by sea, false footing, billows' rage, And pond'rous arms; when as, receiv'd within, He prospers by our spoil: we feed a viper, And malcontents and rebels have a refuge. Nor were it safe to venture all at once; When one fought field being lost, swift ruin runs, And rushing throws down all. CAS. We know our strength and his; we'll fight in field Some dozen miles from sea. An open theatre Gives lustre to our prowess: to keep him out Supposes fear, not manhood. No, let him march, Till he rouse Death, and stride his future grave. BEL. Your will commands, and mine obeys. [_Exeunt._ SCENE IV. CÆSAR, _&c. Ensign, drum, trumpet, flag, Soldiers,_ _Shipmen. The noise of landing_. CÆS. The coast is clear; our honour is the goal. In vain doth Tagus' yellow sand obey, Rhine's horned front and nimble Tigris running For wager with the wind, which skims his top; In vain from Ganges to Hesperian Gades, The bounds mark'd out by Jove's two base-born sons[331] Our echo'd name doth sound, if we recoil From hence again not victors. Ye pilots old, who were begot mermaids, Whose element is their sea, bred and brought up In cradles rock'd with storms and wooden walls. Fear not to grapple with the seas. Fear not Their bulks, brave veterans; that extended mass Is not of iron, but can bleed and die: They were not dipp'd in Styx, nor are they giants Or wild poetic Centaurs we assail. Let then this voyage quit out credit lost, And let rage lash on courage. Here's the game; Life may be lost, but (sure) we'll hold fast fame! [_They march about and go out. The whole_ _battle within._ CASSIBELANUS, BELINUS, _&c., Soldiers_. CAS. Our first attempt doth prosper: they retiring Scud to the bosom of their fir-tree vaults, And under hatches hide themselves from death. The Cornish band made havoc of their ranks, Like Scythian wolves 'midst of a bleating fold: The jingling lances, rattling chariot-wheels, Madded their horse. The bowmen merrily shot. BEL. Yet would our tributary kings had succour'd! We are decay'd, they much in number grown, And surely will make head again.