Hen.  The Almarado was on poynt to sound;
But then a Herald from their Tents flew forth,
Being sent to question us for what we came;
And [At?] which, I must confesse, being all on fire
We cryed for warre and death.  Backe rode the Herald
As lightning had persu’d him.  But the Captaines,
Thinking us tir’d with marching, did conceive
Rest would make difficult what easie now
Quicke charge might drive us to.  So, like a storme
Beating upon a wood of lustie Pines,
Which though they shake they keepe their footing fast,
Our pikes their horses stood.  Hot was the day
In which whole fields of men were swept away,
As by sharpe Sithes are cut the golden corne
And in as short time.  It was this mans sword
Hew’d ways to danger; and when danger met him
He charm’d it thence, and when it grew agen
He drove it back agen, till at the length
It lost the field.  Foure long hours this did hold,
In which more worke was done than can be told.

Bel.  But let me tell your Father how the first feather That Victory herselfe pluckt from her wings, She stuck it in your Burgonet.

Hub.  Brave still!

Hen.  No, Bellizarius; thou canst guild thy honours
Borne[136] from the reeking breasts of Affricans,
When I aloof[137] stood wondering at those Acts
Thy sword writ in the battaile, which were such
Would make a man a souldier but to read ’em.

Hub.  And what to read mine? is my booke claspt up?

Bel.  No, it lyes open, where in texed letters read
Each Pioner [?] that your unseason’d valour
Had thrice ingag’d our fortunes and our men
Beyond recovery, had not this arme redeem’d you.

Hub.  Yours?

Bel.  For which your life was lost for doing more Than from the Generals mouth you had command.

Hub.  You fill my praise with froth, as Tapsters fill Their cut-throat Cans; where, give me but my due, I did as much as you, or you, or any.

Bel.  Any?

Hub.  Yes, none excepted.

Bel.  The Prince was there.

Hub.  And I was there:  since you draw one another
I will turne Painter too and draw my selfe. 
Was it not I that when the maine Battalia
Totter’d and foure great squadrons put to rout,
Then reliev’d them? and with this arme, this sword,
And this affronting brow put them to flight,
Chac’d em, slew thousands, tooke some few and drag’d em
As slaves, tyed to my saddle bow with Halters?

Hen.  Yes, Sir, ’tis true; but, as he sayes, your fury
Left all our maine Battalia welnigh lost. 
For had the foe but re-inforct againe
Our courages had beene seiz’d (?), any Ambuskado
Cut you and your rash troopes off; if—­

Hub.  What ‘if’?  Envy, not honour, still inferres these ‘ifs.’  It thriv’d and I returnd with Victory.