But stand for want of clothes (tho he win Towns)
Amongst the Almesbasket-men! his best reward
Being scorn’d to be a fellow to the blacke gard[188]. 
Why shud a Souldier, being the worlds right arme,
Be cut thus by the left, a Courtier? 
Is the world all Ruffe and Feather and nothing else? 
Shall I never see a Taylor give his coat with a difference from a
  gentleman?

    Enter King, Alanzo, Carlo, Cockadillio.

King.  My Baltazar!  Let us make haste to meet thee:  how art thou alter’d!  Doe you not know him?

Alanz.  Yes, Sir; the brave Souldier Employed against the Moores.

King.  Halfe turn’d Moore!  I’le honour thee:  reach him a chair—­that Table:  And now Aeneas-like let thine own Trumpet Sound forth thy battell with those slavish Moores.

Bal.  My musicke is a Canon; a pitcht field my stage; Furies the Actors, blood and vengeance the scaene; death the story; a sword imbrued with blood the pen that writes; and the Poet a terrible buskind Tragical fellow with a wreath about his head of burning match instead of Bayes.

King.  On to the Battaile!

Bal.  ’Tis here, without bloud-shed:  This our maine Battalia, this the Van, this the Vaw[189], these the wings:  here we fight, there they flye; here they insconce, and here our sconces lay 17 Moours on the cold earth.

King.  This satisfies mine eye, but now mine eare Must have his musicke too; describe the battaile.

Bal.  The Battaile?  Am I come from doing to talking?  The hardest part for a Souldier to play is to prate well; our Tongues are Fifes, Drums, Petronels, Muskets, Culverin and Canon; these are our Roarers; the Clockes which wee goe by are our hands:  thus we reckon tenne, our swords strike eleven, and when steele targets of proofe clatter one against another, then ’tis noone; that’s the height and the heat of the day of battaile.

King.  So.

Bal.  To that heat we came, our Drums beat, Pikes were shaken and shiver’d, swords and Targets clash’d and clatter’d, Muskets ratled, Canons roar’d, men dyed groaning, brave laced Jerkings and Feathers looked pale, totter’d[190] rascals fought pell mell; here fell a wing, there heads were tost like foot-balls; legs and armes quarrell’d in the ayre and yet lay quietly on the earth; horses trampled upon heaps of carkasses, Troopes of Carbines tumbled wounded from their horses; we besiege Moores and famine us; Mutinies bluster and are calme.  I vow’d not to doff mine Armour, tho my flesh were frozen too’t and turn’d into Iron, nor to cut head nor beard till they yeelded; my hayres and oath are of one length, for (with Caesar) thus write I mine owne story, Veni, vidi, vici.

King.  A pitch’d field quickly fought:  our hand is thine And ’cause thou shalt not murmur that thy blood Was lavish’d forth for an ingrateful man, Demand what we can give thee and ’tis thine.