[MASSINISSA _begins to draw_. Our troops of horse make indisgraced retreat; Trot easy off.--Not poor!--Jugurth, give charge My soldiers stand in square battalia, [_Exit_ JUGURTH. Entirely of themselves.--Gisco, th' art old; 'Tis time to leave off murder; thy faint breath Scarce heaves thy ribs, thy gummy blood-shut eyes 50 Are sunk a great way in thee, thy lank skin Slides from thy fleshless veins: be good to men. Judge him, ye gods: I had not life to kill So base a creature. Hold, Gisco, live; The god-like part of kings is to forgive. _Gis._ Command astonish'd Gisco. _Mass._ No, return. Haste unto Carthage, quit thy abject fears, Massinissa knows no use of murderers. [_Exit_ GISCO. _Enter_ JUGURTH, _amazed, his sword drawn_. Speak, speak! let terror strike slaves mute, Much danger makes great hearts most resolute. 60 _Jug._ Uncle, I fear foul arms; myself beheld Syphax on high speed run his well-breath'd horse Direct to Cirta, that most beauteous city Of all his kingdom; whilst his troops of horse, With careless trot, pace gently toward our camp, As friends to Carthage. Stand on guard, dear uncle; For Asdrubal, with yet his well-rank'd army, Bends a deep threat'ning brow to us, as if He waited but to join with Syphax' horse, And hew us all to pieces. O my king, 70 My uncle, father, captain, O over all! Stand like thyself, or like thyself now fall! Thy troops yet hold good ground. Unworthy wounds, Betray not Massinissa! _Mass._ Jugurth, pluck, Pluck! so, good coz. _Jug._ O God! Do you not feel? _Mass._ Not, Jugurth, no; now all my flesh is steel. _Gel._ Off base disguise! high lights scorn not to view A true old man. Up, Massinissa! throw The lot of battle upon Syphax' troops, Before he join with Carthage; then amain 80 Make through to Scipio; he yields safe abodes: Spare treachery, and strike the very gods. _Mass._ Why wast thou born at Carthage! O my fate! Divinest Sophonisba! I am full Of much complaint, and many passions, The least of which express'd would sad the gods, And strike compassion in most[332] ruthless hell. Up, unmaim'd heart, spend all thy grief and rage Upon thy foe! the field's a soldier's stage, On which his action shows. If you are just, 90 And hate those that contemn you, O you gods, Revenge worthy your anger, your anger! O, Down man, up heart! stoop Jove, and bend thy chin To thy large breast; give sign th'art pleased, and just; Swear good men's foreheads must not print the dust. [_Exeunt._ [329] Armour for the throat.