Retire, we have engaged ourselves too far:
Caesar himself has work, and our oppression
Exceeds what we expected.

O my brave emperor, this is fought indeed!
Had we done so at first, we had droven them home
With clouts about their heads.

Thou bleed'st apace.

I had a wound here that was like a T,
But now 'tis made an H.

They do retire.

We'll beat 'em into bench-holes: I have yet
Room for six scotches more.

They are beaten, sir, and our advantage serves
For a fair victory.

Let us score their backs,
And snatch 'em up, as we take hares, behind:
'Tis sport to maul a runner.

I will reward thee
Once for thy spritely comfort, and ten-fold
For thy good valour. Come thee on.

I'll halt after.