2D MESS. The daring enemies have through their gates made a victorious sally: all our troops have jointly, like the dust before the wind, made a dishonoured flight. Hark! [_Alarum within._] The conquering foe makes hitherward. RAY. Run to my tent, fetch my Philippa, slave. Why movest thou not? 2D MESS. The enemy's upon us. RAY. Shall I send thy coward soul down the vaults of horror? Fly, villain, or thou diest! [_Strikes him._ _Alarum._ _Enter_ MACHIAVEL, ALERZO, FULGENTIO, PANDOLPHO, _with_ PHILIPPA _prisoner_, GIOVANNO _with_ TAILOR. MACH. Let one post to my castle, and conduct My lady; tell her I have a prisoner would become Proud in her forc'd captivity, to wait Upon her beauty: fly, let not the tardy clouds outsail thee. PHIL. Canst thou, proud man, think that Philippa's heart Is humbled with her fortunes? No, didst thou Bring all the rough tortures From the world's childhood to this hour invented, And on my resolute body, proof against pain, Practis'd Sicilian tyranny, my giant thoughts Should, like a cloud of wind-contemning smoke, Mingle with heaven: And not a look so base as to be pitied Shall give you cause of triumph. ALER. 'Fore heaven, a fiery girl. FUL. A masculine spirit. PAN. An Amazon. RAY. See, my Philippa, her rich colour's fled, and like that soul The furrow-fronted fates have made an anvil To forge diseases on, she's lost herself With her fled beauty; yet, pale as she stands, She adds more glory to our churlish foe, Than bashful Titan to the eastern world. Spaniards, she is a conquest; Rome, When her two-neck'd eagles aw'd the world, Would have swum through her[22] own blood to purchase: Nor must you enjoy that gem the superstitious gods Would quarrel for, but through my heart. Courage, brave friends, they're valiant that can fly I' th' mouth of danger; 'tis they win, though die. GIO. This Moor speaks truth, Wrapp'd in a voice of thunder. RAY. Speak, my Philippa, what untutor'd slave Durst lay a rugged hand upon thy softness? PHIL. 'Twas the epitome of Hercules: No big Colossus, yet for strength far bigger: A little person, great with matchless valour. RAY. What pains thou takest to praise Thine enemy! PHIL. 'Twere sin to rob him that has wasted so his blood for praise: this noble soldier, he 'twas made me captive; nor can he boast 'twas in an easy combat; for my good sword, now ravish'd from mine arm, forc'd crimson drops that, like a gory sweat, buried his manly body in oblivion: those that were skill'd in his effigies, as drunk with Lethe, had forgot 'twas he; till by the drawing of the rueful curtain, they saw in him their error. RAY. A common soldier, owner of a strength worthy Such praise? Dares he cope with the French general single? PHIL. My lord, you must strike quick and sure. RAY. Why pause you? my Philippa must not stay Captivity's infection. MACH. We have the day.