BALTHAZAR
My music is a Cannon, a pitched field my stage, Furies the actors,
blood and vengeance the scene, death the story, a sword imbrued with
blood, the pen that writes, and the poet a terrible buskined <17>
tragical fellow, with a wreath about his head of burning match
instead of bays.

KING
On to the battle.

BALTHAZAR
'Tis here without bloodshed. This our main battalia, that the van,
this the vaw <18>, these the wings, here we fight, there they fly,
here they insconce <19>, and here our sconces <20> lay seventeen
moons on the cold earth.

KING
This satisfies my eye, but now my ear
Must have his music too. Describe the battle.

BALTHAZAR
The battle? Am I come from doing to talking? The hardest part for a
soldier to play is to prate well. Our tongues are fifes, drums,
petronels <21>, muskets, culverin <22> and cannon. These are our
roarers, the clocks which we go by are our hands. Thus we reckon ten,
our swords strike eleven and when steel targets of proof clatter one
against another, then 'tis noon that's the height and the heat of the
day of battle.