K. OF PORT. Prince, let thy rage give way to patience, And set a velvet brow upon the face Of wrinkled anger: our keen swords Must right these wrongs, and not light airy words. PHIL. Yet words may make the edge of rage more sharp, And whet a blunted courage with revenge. ALV. Here's none wants whetting, for our keen resolves Are steel'd unto the back with double wrongs; Wrongs that would make a handless man take arms: Wrongs that would make a coward resolute. CAR. Why, then, join all our several wrongs in one, And from these wrongs assume a firm resolve To send this devil to damnation. [_Drums afar off._ PHIL. I hear the sound of his approaching march. Stand fair; Saint Jacques for the right of Spain! _Enter the_ MOOR, RODERIGO, CHRISTOFERO, _with drums, colours, and soldiers marching bravely_. ELE. Bastard of Spain! PHIL. Thou true-stamp'd son of hell, Thy pedigree is written in thy face. [_Alarum and a battle; the_ MOOR _prevails: all exeunt_. SCENE II. _Enter_ PHILIP _and_ CARDINAL. PHIL. Move forward with your main battalion, Or else all's lost. CAR. I will not move a foot. PHIL. S'heart! will you lose the day? CAR. You lose your wits, You're mad; it is no policy. PHIL. You lie. CAR. Lie! PHIL. Lie! a pox upon't, cardinal, come on, Second the desperate vanguard which is mine, And where I'll die or win. Follow my sword The bloody way I lead it, or, by heaven, I'll play the devil, and mar all! we'll turn our backs Upon the Moors, and set on thee; ay, thee, Thee, cardinal! s'heart! thee. CAR. Your desperate arm Hath almost thrust quite through the heart of hope: Our fortunes lie a-bleeding by your rash And violent onset. PHIL. O, O, s'life! s'foot! will you [not] fight? CAR. We will not hazard all upon one cast. PHIL. You will not? CAR. No. PHIL. Coward! CAR. By deeds I'll try. Whether your venomous tongue says true. Farewell; Courage shines both in this and policy. [_Exit._ PHIL. To save thy skin whole, that's thy policy. You whoreson fat-chapp'd guts, Ill melt away That larded body by the heat of fight, Which I'll compel thee to, or else by flying: To work which I'll give way to the proud foe. Whilst I stand laughing to behold you run. Cardinal, I'll do't, I'll do't; a Moor, a Moor! Philip cries a Moor! holla! la! whoo! _Enter_ KING OF PORTUGAL. K. OF PORT. Prince Philip! Philip! PHIL. Here: plague, where's the Moor? K. OF PORT. The Moor's a devil: never did horrid fiend, Compell'd by some magician's mighty charm, Break through the prisons of the solid earth With more strange horror than this prince of hell, This damned negro, lion-like doth rush Through all, and spite of all knit opposition. PHIL. Puh, puh! where, where? I'll meet him: where? You mad me! 'Tis not his arm That acts such wonders, but our cowardice. This cardinal, O, this cardinal is a slave. _Enter_ CAPTAIN. CAPT. Sound a retreat, or else the day is lost!