[Sound the alarm.]
Aye me, I fear my Hubba is surprised.
[Sound again. Enter Albanact.]
ALBA. Follow me, soldiers, follow Albanact; Pursue the Scithians flying through the field: Let none of them escape with victory; That they may know the Brittains' force is more Than all the power of the trembling Huns.
THRASIMACHUS. Forward, brave soldiers, forward! keep the chase. He that takes captive Humber or his son Shall be rewarded with a crown of gold.
[Sound alarm, then let them fight, Humber give back, Hubba enter at their backs, and kill Debon, let Strumbo fall down, Albanact run in, and afterwards enter wounded.]
ALBA. Injurious fortune, hast thou crossed me thus? Thus, in the morning of my victories, Thus, in the prime of my felicity, To cut me off by such hard overthrow! Hadst thou no time thy rancor to declare, But in the spring of all my dignities? Hadst thou no place to spit thy venom out, But on the person of young Albanact? I, that ere while did scare mine enemies, And drove them almost to a shameful flight, I, that ere while full lion-like did fare Amongst the dangers of the thick thronged pikes, Must now depart most lamentably slain By Humber's treacheries and fortune's spites. Cursed be her charms, damned be her cursed charms That doth delude the wayward hearts of men, Of men that trust unto her fickle wheel, Which never leaveth turning upside down. O gods, O heavens, allot me but the place Where I may find her hateful mansion! I'll pass the Alps to watery Meroe, Where fiery Phoebus in his chariot, The wheels whereof are decked with Emeralds, Casts such a heat, yea such a scorching heat, And spoileth Flora of her checquered grass; I'll overrun the mountain Caucasus, Where fell Chimaera in her triple shape Rolleth hot flames from out her monstrous paunch, Searing the beasts with issue of her gorge; I'll pass the frozen Zone where icy flakes, Stopping the passage of the fleeting ships, Do lie like mountains in the congealed sea: Where if I find that hateful house of hers, I'll pull the pickle wheel from out her hands, And tie her self in everlasting bands. But all in vain I breath these threatenings; The day is lost, the Huns are conquerors, Debon is slain, my men are done to death, The currents swift swim violently with blood And last, O that this last night so long last, My self with wounds past all recovery Must leave my crown for Humber to possess.
STRUMBO. Lord have mercy upon us, masters, I think this is a holy day; every man lies sleeping in the fields, but, God knows, full sore against their wills.
THRASIMACHUS. Fly, noble Albanact, and save thy self. The Scithians follow with great celerity, And there's no way but flight, or speedy death; Fly, noble Albanact, and save thy self.
[Exit Thrasimachus. Sound the alarm.]
ALBA. Nay, let them fly that fear to die the death, That tremble at the name of fatal mors. Never shall proud Humber boast or brag himself That he hath put young Albanact to flight; And least he should triumph at my decay, This sword shall reave his master of his life, That oft hath saved his master's doubtful life: But, oh, my brethren, if you care for me, Revenge my death upon his traitorous head.
Et vos queis domus est nigrantis regia ditis, Qui regitis rigido stigios moderamine lucos: Nox coeci regina poli, furialis Erinnis, Diique deaeque omnes, Albanum tollite regem, Tollite flumineis undis rigidaque palude. Nune me fata vocant, loc condam pectore ferrum.
[Thrusts himself through. Enter Trompart.]
TROMPART. O, what hath he done? his nose bleeds. But, oh, I smell a fox: Look where my master lies. Master, master.
STRUMBO. Let me alone, I tell thee, for I am dead.
TROMPART. Yet one word, good master.
STRUMBO. I will not speak, for I am dead, I tell thee.
TROMPART. And is my master dead? O sticks and stones, brickbats and bones, and is my master dead? O you cockatrices and you bablatrices, that in the woods dwell: You briers and brambles, you cook's shops and shambles, come howl and yell. With howling & screeking, with wailing and weeping, come you to lament, O Colliers of Croyden, and rustics of Royden, and fishers of Kent; For Strumbo the cobbler, the fine merry cobbler of Cathnes town: At this same stour, at this very hour, lies dead on the ground. O master, thieves, thieves, thieves.