_Near Cirta._ _Cornets sound a charge. Enter_ MASSINISSA _in his gorget_[329] _and shirt, shield, sword; his arm transfix'd with a dart_. JUGURTH _follows, with his cuirass and casque_. _Mass._ Mount us again; give us another horse! _Jug._ Uncle, your blood flows fast: pray ye withdraw. _Mass._ O Jugurth, I cannot bleed too fast, too much, For that so great, so just, so royal Carthage! My wound smarts not, blood's loss makes me not faint, For that loved city. O nephew, let me tell thee, How good that Carthage is: it nourish'd me, And when full time gave me fit strength for love, The most adorèd creature of the city, To us before great Syphax did they yield,-- 10 Fair, noble, modest, and 'bove all, my [own], My Sophonisba! O Jugurth, my strength doubles: I know not how to turn a coward,--drop In feeble baseness I cannot. Give me horse! Know I'm Carthage' very creature, and am grac'd That I may bleed for them. Give me fresh horse! _Jug._ He that doth public good for multitude, Finds few are truly grateful. _Mass._ O Jugurth! fie! you must not say so. Jugurth, Some[330] common-weals may let a noble heart 20 Even bleed to death abroad, and not bemoan'd, Neither revenged, at home. But, Carthage, fie! It cannot be ungrate, faithless through fear: It cannot, Jugurth: Sophonisba's there. Beat a fresh charge! _Enter_ ASDRUBAL, _his sword drawn, reading a letter_; GISCO _follows him_. _Asd._ Sound the retreat; respect your health, brave prince; The waste of blood throws paleness on your face. _Mass._ By light, my heart's not pale: O my loved father, We bleed for Carthage; balsam to my wounds, We bleed for Carthage; shall's restore the fight? 30 My squadron of Massulians yet stands firm. _Asd._ The day looks off from Carthage; cease alarms! A modest temperance is the life of arms. Take our best surgeon Gisco; he is sent From Carthage to attend your chance of war. _Gis._ We promise sudden ease. _Mass._ Thy comfort's good. _Asd._ --That nothing can secure us but thy blood! Infuse it in his wound, 'twill work amain. _Gis._ --O Jove! _Asd._ --What Jove? thy god must be thy gain,-- And as for me----Apollo Pythian, 40 Thou know'st a statist[331] must not be a man. [_Exit_ ASDRUBAL. _Enter_ GELOSSO _disguised like an old soldier, delivering to_ MASSINISSA (_as he is preparing to be dressed by_ GISCO) _a letter, which_ MASSINISSA _reading, starts, and speaks to_ GISCO. _Mass._ Forbear; how art thou call'd? _Gis._ Gisco, my lord. _Mass._ Um, Gisco. Ha! touch not my arm.--[_To_ GELOSSO.] Most only man!-- [_To_ Gisco.] Sirra, sirra, art poor? _Gis._ Not poor. _Mass._ Nephew, command