And thou hast talk'd
Of Sallies, and Retires; Trenches, Tents,
Of Palizadoes, Frontiers, Parapets,
Of Basiliskes, of Canon, Culuerin,
Of Prisoners ransome, and of Souldiers slaine,
And all the current of a headdy fight.
Thy spirit within thee hath beene so at Warre,
And thus hath so bestirr'd thee in thy sleepe,
That beds of sweate hath stood vpon thy Brow,
Like bubbles in a late-disturbed Streame;
And in thy face strange motions haue appear'd,
Such as we see when men restraine their breath
On some great sodaine hast. O what portents are these?
Some heauie businesse hath my Lord in hand,
And I must know it: else he loues me not
Hot. What ho; Is Gilliams with the Packet gone?
Ser. He is my Lord, an houre agone
Hot. Hath Butler brought those horses fro[m] the Sheriffe?
Ser. One horse, my Lord, he brought euen now
Hot. What Horse? A Roane, a crop eare, is it not
Ser. It is my Lord
Hot. That Roane shall be my Throne. Well, I will
backe him straight. Esperance, bid Butler lead him forth
into the Parke
La. But heare you, my lord
Hot. What say'st thou my Lady?
La.
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