ALBA:
Thou base born Hun, how durst thou be so bold
As once to menace warlike Albanact,
The great commander of these regions?
But thou shalt buy thy rashness with thy death,
And rue too late thy over bold attempts;
For with this sword, this instrument of death,
That hath been drenched in my foe-men’s blood,
I’ll separate thy body from thy head,
And set that coward blood of thine abroach. 

STRUMBO:
Nay, with this staff, great Strumbo’s instrument,
I’ll crack thy cockscomb, paltry Scithian. 

HUMBER:
Nor wreak I of thy threat, thou princox boy,
Nor do I fear thy foolish insolency;
And but thou better use thy bragging blade,
Then thou doest rule thy overflowing tongue,
Superbious Brittain, thou shalt know too soon
The force of Humber and his Scithians. [Let them fight. Humber and his soldiers run in.] 

STRUMBO:
O horrible, terrible. [Exit.] 

SCENE V. Another part of the field of battle. 
Sound the alarm. 
Enter Humber and his soldiers. 

HUMBER:
How bravely this young Brittain, Albanact,
Darteth abroad the thunderbolts of war,
Beating down millions with his furious mood,
And in his glory triumphs over all,
Moving the mass squadrants of the ground;
Heaps hills on hills, to scale the starry sky,
As when Briareus, armed with an hundreth hands,
Flung forth an hundreth mountains at great Jove,

 Prev. P 19/49 next