_Enter_ Geta, _Guard_, _Souldiers_.
_Get._ I'll swear the Peace against 'em, I am hurt,
Run for a Surgeon, or I faint.
_1 Guard._ Bear up, man,
'Tis but a scratch.
_Get._ Scoring a man o'r the Coxcomb
Is but a scratch with you! ---- 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.
_2 Guard._ Thou shalt fright men.
_1 Guard._ You look so terrible now; but see your face
In the Pummel of my Sword.
_Get._ I dye, I am gone.
Oh my sweet physiognomy.
_Enter three_ Persians.
_2 Guard._ They come,
Now fight, or dye indeed.
_Get._ I will 'scape this way;
I cannot hold my Sword; what would you have
Of a maim'd man?
_1 Guard._ Nay, then I have a goad
To prick you forward, Oxe.
_2 Guard._ Fight like a Man,
Or dye like a Dog.
_Get._ 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.
_1 Guard._ O brave, brave _Geta_, [Persians _driven off_.
He plays the Devil now.
_Enter_ Niger.
_Nig._ 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,
[_Alarm's continued._
In which _Cosroe_ in his own person fights,
Stands firm, and yet unrouted; Break thorow that,
The day, and all is ours. [_Retreat._
_All._ Victory, Victory. [_Exeunt. Flourish._