Scene: The Field of Battle on the Persian Frontiers.
Enter GETA, Guard, and Soldiers.
I'll swear the peace against 'em! I am hurt:
Run for a surgeon, or I faint!
Bear up, man;
'Tis but a scratch.
Scoring a man o'er the coxcomb
Is but a scratch with you. Pox o' your occupation,
Your scurvy scuffling trade! I was told before,
My face was bad enough; but now I look
Like Bloody-Bone, and Raw-Head, to fright children:
I am for no use else.
Thou shalt fright men.
You look so terrible now! But see your face
I' th' pummel of my sword.
I die! I am gone!
Oh, my sweet physiognomy!
Enter three Persians.
Now fight, or die indeed.
I will 'scape this way.
I cannot hold my sword: What would you have
Of a maim'd man?
Nay, then I have a goad
To prick you forward, ox.
Fight like a man,
Or die like a dog.
Shall I, like Cæsar, fall
Among my friends? no mercy? Et tu, Brute? You shall not have the honour of my death;
I'll fall by the enemy first.
Oh, brave, brave Geta!
[Persians driven off.
He plays the devil now.
Make up for honour!
The Persians shrink; the passage is laid open;
Great Dioclesian, like a second Mars,
(His strong arm govern'd by the fierce Bellona)
Performs more than a man; His shield, struck full
Of Persian darts, which now are his defence
Against the enemies' swords, still leads the way.
Of all the Persian forces, one strong squadron,
In which Cosroe in his own person fights,
Stands firm, and yet unrouted: Break through that,
The day and all is ours.