_A Plain between the front of the two Armies at Halidon-hill._

[_Martial Music heard at a distance._

_Enter_ SIR RICHARD BENHALE. TURNBULL _comes from the opposite side of the Stage, attended by a huge Mastiff_.

BENHALE.

I came to fight with men and not with dogs.

TURNBULL.

I came to fight a man and not a pup!

BENHALE.

Were thy hide like the mail’d rhinoceros; Thy brawny arms like Hercules’ strangling serpents; Thy ample shoulders like gigantic Atlas With the globe on his back, I would not shrink, But with this little arm and trusty sword Teach thee to temper speech with more politeness.

TURNBULL.

Foam not nor fret not thus, thou baby knight, The champion of some whorish dame of Norfolk Fed upon turkies by some foolish housewife. Ho! Towser, seize him: shake his silken doublet, And dine upon his brains,—if brains there be Within his egg-shell skull.

BENHALE.

Down with thee, brute!—— [_The Dog attacks the Knight, who, with one blow across the loins, severs the hinder-legs from the body._ Thus will I chop your ruffian of a master. [_They fight._

TURNBULL.

Thou art a well-built piece of painted clay, With bones and sinews in thy dext’rous arm; Now feel my mountain-strength, that crushes thee Like a cobweb, since you’ve destroy’d my idol, My precious dog!

BENHALE.

Not, ruffian, till you feel The venom of my sting unto your marrow!

[BENHALE, _with skill and dexterity, avoids the blows of his antagonist, who nearly overturns himself by a false stroke; the Knight, improving the opportunity, cuts off his opponent’s left arm_. What think ye, braggart! of our English pups, Now that ye feel their claws? [_Shouts from the English._

TURNBULL (_recovering._)

Thou wicked one, Nursed by some imp of hell; hence musket-proof, With Satan’s phiz embroider’d on your vest! Confess yourself a fiend, nor urge a strife Unequal. [_They both rest on their swords._

BENHALE.

Hadst thou met me as a knight, With courtesy of arms, on equal ground, Nor sought to brute and worry me with dogs Too like yourself, I should have spared you now; But thou must die: the army has decided The fate of him whose vanquish’d—St George for England! [_They fight._

TURNBULL.

I did but sport with thee, thou baby knight! And thus I dash your maggot soul to atoms. [_After a fierce combat_, BENHALE _is nearly worsted, when, by a dexterous pass, he stabs his opponent, who falls_. H! hast thou master’d me? I scorn thee still; Oh! that my voice might rouse my murder’d mastiff T’ avenge my death!—I but regret to perish By such a puny hand. Revenge me, Scots! [_Dies._

BENHALE.

Ye Scots! behold your champion slain, and tremble: As the bull’s head, when set at baron’s banquet, So nicely deck’d with garlands and rosemary, Foretells assassination to the guest; So this gigantic head upon my spear, Which as a garland on my crest I’ll wear, [_He cuts off his opponent’s head, and places it on his spear._ Foretells defeat, destruction to your army, God save the king!

[_Shouts from the English, accompanied with execrations from the Scots. The armies now mutually engage, and the scene closes._