_Lab._ In a word, Sir,
These gaping wounds, not taken as a slave,
Speak _Pompey's_ loss: to tell you of the Battail,
How many thousand several bloody shapes
Death wore that day in triumph: how we bore
The shock of _Cæsars_ charge: or with what fury
His Souldiers came on as if they had been
So many _Cæsars_, and like him ambitious
To tread upon the liberty of _Rome_:
How Fathers kill'd their Sons, or Sons their Fathers,
Or how the _Roman_ Piles on either side
Drew _Roman_ blood, which spent, the Prince of weapons,
(The sword) succeeded, which in Civil wars
Appoints the Tent on which wing'd victory
Shall make a certain Stand; then, how the Plains
Flow'd o're with blood, and what a cloud of vulturs
And other birds of prey, hung o're both armies,
Attending when their ready Servitors,
(The Souldiers, from whom the angry gods
Had took all sense of reason, and of pity)
Would serve in their own carkasses for a feast,
How _Cæsar_ with his Javelin force'd them on
That made the least stop, when their angry hands
Were lifted up against some known friends face;
Then coming to the body of the army
He shews the sacred _Senate_, and forbids them
To wast their force upon the Common Souldier,
Whom willingly, if e're he did know pity,
He would have spar'd.