Agr.
Retire, we have engag'd our selves too far:
Cæsar himself has work, and our oppression
Exceeds what we expected. [Exit. Alarum. Enter Antony, and Scarus wounded.

Scar.
O my brave Emperor, this is fought indeed;
Had we done so at first, we had droven them home
With clouts about their heads.

Ant.
Thou bleed'st apace.

Scar.
I had a wound here that was like a T,
But now 'tis made an H.

Ant.
They do retire.

Scar.
We'll beat 'em into bench-holes, I have yet
Room for six scotches more. Enter Eros.

Eros.
They're beaten, Sir, and our advantage serves
For a fair victory.

Scar.
Let us score their backs,
And snatch 'em up, as we take hares behind,
'Tis sport to maul a runner.

Ant.
I will reward thee
Once for thy sprightly comfort, and ten-fold
For thy good valour. Come thee on.

Scar.
I'll halt after. [Exeunt. Alarum. Enter Antony again in a March, Scarus with others.

Ant.
We've beat him to his camp; run one before,
And let the Queen know of our Guests; to-morrow
Before the sun shall see's, we'll spill the blood
That has to-day escap'd. I thank you all,
For doughty-handed are you, and have fought
Not as you serv'd the cause, but as't had been
Each man's like mine; you've shewn your selves all Hectors.
Enter the city, clip your wives, your friends,
Tell them your feats, whilst they with joyful tears
Wash the congealment from your wounds, and kiss
The honour'd gashes whole. Give me thy hand, [To Scarus. Enter Cleopatra.
To this great faiery I'll commend thy acts,

Make her thanks bless thee. O thou day o'th' world,
Chain mine arm'd neck; leap thou, attire and all,
Through proof of harness to my heart, and there
Ride on the pants triumphing.

Cleo.
Lord of lords,
Oh infinite virtue, com'st thou smiling from
The world's great snare, uncaught?

Ant.
My nightingale,
We've beat them to their beds. What girl, though gray
Do something mingle with our younger brown, yet ha'we
A brain that nourishes our nerves, and can
Get goal for goal of youth. Behold this man,
Commend unto his lips thy savouring hand;
Kiss it my warrior: he hath fought to-day,
As if a God in hate of mankind had
Destroyed in such a shape.

Cleo.
I'll give thee, friend,
An armour all of gold; it was a King's.

Ant.
He has deserv'd it, were it carbunkled
Like holy Phœbus' car. Give me thy hand,
Through Alexandria make a jolly march,
Bear our hackt targets, like the men that owe them.
Had our great palace the capacity
To camp this host, we all would sup together,
And drink carowses to the next day's fate
Which promises royal peril. Trumpeters
With brazen din blast you the city's ear,
Make mingle with our ratling tabourines,
That heav'n and earth may strike their sounds together,
Applauding our approach. [Exeunt.

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