Alarums. Enter Antony, and Scarus wounded

SCARUS          O, my brave Emperor, this is fought indeed!

Had we done so at first, we had droven them home

With clouts about their heads.

ANTONY                                 Thou bleed’st apace.

SCARUS I had a wound here that was like a T,

But now ’tis made an H.

[Retreat is sounded] far off

ANTONY                                 They do retire.

SCARUS We’ll beat ’em into bench-holes. I have yet

Room for six scotches more.            (4.8.1-7)

The action’s continuous and the battle’s still underway, although perhaps in its closing stages. Antony and Scarus, the latter wounded, but buoyed up by their apparent success in the battle: O, my brave Emperor—even visibly wounded, he’s still emphatically loyal, and in awe of Antony, who’s clearly recovered his battle form—this is fought indeed! What a battle! That was proper fighting, that was! Had we done so at first, if only we’d fought like that all along, right from the start, we had droven them home with clouts about their heads. We’d have kicked them back to their camps with blows, bloody heads, and bandages. (A clout is both a good hard knock and a rag.) Thou bleed’st apace: Antony’s first words are concern for this brave, loyal soldier. You’re bleeding, mate, and heavily. But Scarus is full of adrenaline, high on battle, not feeling the pain; he can make a joke out of it (he’s Antony’s man—painfully, though, it’s what Enobarbus would do—but Enobarbus isn’t there). I had a wound here that was like a T, two slashes at least, but now ’tis made an H, with another slash to make it an ache, too. A sound they’ve been hoping and waiting for: retreat sounded, far off, implicitly by Caesar’s trumpets, and Antony confirms it: they do retire. We’ll beat ’em into bench-holes, crows Scarus, it’s still the adrenaline talking: it’s hard not to imagine fox-holes or trenches here, but he’s being much cruder, suggesting that they’ll pursue the enemy with such force that they’ll hide in latrines, the bench-holes being the seats in a communal toilet. Bring it on! I’m not done yet, and I can still go after them, make them eat dirt. I have yet room for six scotches more, another six gashes, to make up a whole alphabet of wounds.