For every philtre that can make men love,

I know the secret of an antidote.

I've warn'd him of those private ties in Ghent.
Enough. I've dosed him.

OCCO.

Well, it shall be done.

GILBERT.

I will provide thee hands.

OCCO.

You shall not need.

I have already sent for two tried men,-
Italians; they are practised hands and fit.

The revellers, my good lord; they pitch the bar,
And shoot with cross-bows for a prize. My lord,
At noon to-morrow, if his heart but hold,

I'll meet Sir Walter D'Arlon.

GILBERT.

In good truth

But are these shouts of revel? Hark, again!

They cry, to arms.'

EARL.

By heaven I think 'tis that.

And hear ye not the bells? They're ringing backwards.

OCCO.

"Tis an alarm.

Enter the LORD OF ARLON, SIR ROBERT MARESCHAULT,

and others.

EARL.

Well, D'Arlon, what is this?

D'ARLON.

The men of Ghent, my lord, the men of Ghent.

My friends, 'tis all as one.

Now shall this war be gloriously ended,
And famine, that was tedious, be o'erta'en.
Bring out my banner, summon all to arms,
Then forth and fight them.

SIR ROBERT.

Since they were first descried they have not stirr'd.

EARL.

Forth with my banner; out with horse and foot.
Sir knights, we muster in the Market-place.
Bring me my armour, ho!

GILBERT.

My lord, one word,

Ere yet the knights depart. These men are few,
But they are desperate; famine-bitten are they,
But alway are the leanest wolves most brave
To break the fold. Sir, let us not be rash;
Our men-at-arms are somewhat flush'd with drink,
And may be ill to guide. Sir, think upon it.
Fight them to-morrow. Let them sleep to-night
In winter's lap, beneath the ragged tent
Of a December's sky. When morning breaks
You'll see them lying upon yon hill-side

As dead and sapless as the last month's leaves.
Give them this night.

THE HASE OF FLANDERS.

Nay, nay, they'll think we fear them.

GILBERT.

Think they their will; whate'er they think of that
They shall unthink to-morrow.

EARL.

By my faith

I know not, Gilbert, but thou may'st have reason.
The winter's night is sure to thin their ranks
Of fighting men; and if they're scantly stored

With victual, which is probable to think,

They shall endure it worse.

Enter the Mayor in haste.

MAYOR.

My lord, my lord,

The crafts fly forth by thousands from the gates,

A simple mariner avouch'd, my lord,

That he had heard your Highness's own mouth

Give out the order.

EARL.

Hang the slave! he lied.

MAYOR.

Why so the warders thought, and had not done it,
But that the people, being much inflamed,

Menaced their lives.

Enter a Squire.

SQUIRE.

Sir Walter, sir, sends word

The town is almost emptied. He entreats
Your Highness will not look to bring them back,
Which is past hope, but sound at once to arms,
And send them leaders that are gone unled.

EARL.

Now, Gilbert, we must forth.

GILBERT.

Aye, go we forth.

Fifty to five, we surely must do well,

Though peradventure, for the sparing lives
We might have done more wisely.

EARL.

Sirs, be sudden;

And when you're mounted in the Market-place, I'll give you there your charges. Sound to horse.

SCENE IV.-The Field of Merle, as in the First Scene.

VAN ARTEVELDE, Van Ryk, VAN MUCK, and others.

ARTEVELDE.

See'st thou yon sweeping section of the road
That leads by Ecdorf to the eastern gate?
My eyes are strain'd, but yet I thought I saw
A moving mass of men.

VAN RYK.

I thought so too.

When I had held mine eyes a minute fixed,
As in a morsel of dry moulder'd cheese,

I thought I could descry a tumbling movement.

ARTEVELDE.

Who hath the longest and the clearest sight
Of all our men? go bring him. Nay, stop, stop,
I think we shall not need him: now, look there.

By Heaven, they come! they come! Ha! Van den

Bosch!