QUEEN-M. Why, Eleazar, art thou rapt with joys, Or does thy sinking policy make to shore? ELE. Ha! QUEEN-M. Eleazar, madman! hear'st thou, Moor? ELE. Well so; you turn my brains; you mar the face Of my attempts i' the making; for this chaos, This lump of projects, ere it be lick'd over, 'Tis like a bear's conception; stratagems, Being but begot and not got out, are like Charg'd cannons not discharg'd--they do no harm Nor good. True policy, breeding in the brain, Is like a bar of iron, whose ribs being broken And soften'd in the fire, you then may forge it Into a sword to kill, or to a helmet to defend, Life. 'Tis therefore wit to try all fashions, Ere you apparel villany. But--but I ha' suited him; fit, fit, O, fit! QUEEN-M. How, prythee, how? ELE. Why, thus;--yet, no;--let's hence My heart is nearest of my council, yet I scarce dare trust my heart with't; what I do, It shall look old the hour wherein 'tis born; Wonders twice seen are garments overworn. [_Exeunt._ SCENE V. _Enter_ CARDINAL _at one door_; PHILIPPO _half-armed, and two_ SOLDIERS _following him with the rest of the armour; the_ CARDINAL, _seeing him, turns back again_. PHIL. Sirrah! you, cardinal! coward! run away! So ho, ho! what, cardinal! CAR. I am not for your lure. [_Exit._ PHIL. For that then, O, [_Touching his sword_] that it had nail'd thy heart Up to the pommel to the earth; come, arm me. Ha! 'sfoot! when all our swords were royally gilt with blood, When with red sweat, that trickled from our wounds, We had dearly earn'd a victory; when hell Had from their hinges heav'd off her iron gates, To bid the damn'd Moor and the devils enter, Then to lose all, then to sound base retreat; Why, soldiers, ha! 1ST SOL. I am glad of it, my lord. PHIL. Ha, glad! art glad I am dishonoured, That thou and he [have me] dishonoured? 1ST SOL. Why, my lord, I am glad that you so cleanly did come off. PHIL. Thou hast a lean face and a carrion heart; A plague on him and thee too: then, 'sheart! then To crack the very heart-strings of our army-- To quarter it in pieces--I could tear my hair, And in cursing spend my soul; Cardinal! what, Judas! come, we'll fight, Till there be left but one; if I be he, I'll die a glorious death. 1ST SOL. So will I, I hope, in my bed. [_Aside._] 2D SOL. Till there be but one left, my lord? Why, that's now; for all our fellows are crawled home; some with one leg, some ne'er an arm, some with their brains beaten out, and glad they 'scaped so. PHIL. But, my dear countrymen, you'll stick to me? 1ST SOL. Stick! ay, my lord, stick like bandogs, till we be pulled off. PHIL. That's nobly said: I'll lead you but to death, Where I'll have greatest share; we shall win fame For life, and that doth crown a soldier's name. 1ST SOL. How! to death, my lord? Not I, by Gad's-lid: I have a poor wife and children at home, and, if I die, they beg: and do you think I'll see her go up and down the wide universal world?