Omnes.  See, they come.

    A Flourish; Enter Henricke the Prince, Bellizarius, Hubert,
    leading Eugenius in Chaines with other Prisoners and Souldiers.

King.  I have now liv’d my full time; tell me, my Henricke,[135] Thy brave successe, that my departing soule May with the story blesse another world And purchase me a passage.

Hen.  O, great Sir,
All we have done dyes here if that you dye,
And heaven, before too prodigal to us,
Shedding beames over-glorious on our heads,
Is now full of Eclipses.

King.  No, boy; thy presence Has fetcht life home to heare thee.

Hen.  Then, Royal Father, thus: 
Before our Troopes had reacht the Affrick bounds,
Wearied with tedious Marches and those dangers
Which waite on glorious Warre, the Affricans
A farre had heard our Thunder, whilst their Earth
Did feele an earth-quake in the peoples feares
Before our Drummes came near them.  Yet, spight of terrour,
They fortifi’d their Townes, cloathed all their fields
With warres best bravery, armed Souldiers. 
At this we made a stand, for their bold troopes
Affronted us with steele, dar’d us to come on
And nobly fierd our resolution.

King.  So, hasten; there’s in me a battaile too; Be quicke, or I shall fall.

Hen.  Forefend it heaven.  Now, Bellizarius, come; here stand, just here; And on him, I beseech you, fixe your eye, For you have much to pay to this brave man.

Hub.  Nothing to me?

Hen.  Ile give you him in wonder.

Hub.  Hang him out in a painted cloth for a monster.

Bel.  My Lord, wrong not your selfe to throw on me The honours which are all yours.

Hub.  Is he the Divell? all!

Bel.  Cast not your eyes on me, Sir, but on him; And seale this to your soule:  never had King A Sonne that did to his Crowne more honours bring.

Hen.  Stay, Bellizarius; I’me too true to honour To scant it in the blazing:  though to thee All that report can render leaves thee yet—­

Hub.  A brave man:  you are so too, you both fought; And I stood idle?

Hen.  No, Sir.

Hub.  Here’s your battaile then, and here’s your conquest:  What need such a coyle?

Bel.  Yet, Hubert, it craves more Arethmaticke Than in one figure to be found.

King. Hubert, thou art too busie.

Hub.  So was I in the battaile.

King.  Prethee peace.