_Bell_. I feele the ioy of it with you, sweet Mother, And am as ready to receive a blessing from him As you his chaste imbraces. _Vic_. So, so, bestirre; Let all our loves and duties be exprest In our most diligent and active care. _Enter Bellizarius_. Here comes my comfort-bringer, My _Bellizarius_. _Belliz_. Dearest _Victoria_; My second ioy, take thou a Fathers blessing. _Vic_. Not wounded, Sir, I hope? _Belliz_. No, _Victoria_; Those were Rewards that we bestow'd on others; We gave, but tooke none backe. Had we not you At home to heare our noble Victories Our Fame should want her Crowne, although she flew As high as yonder Axle tree above And spred in latitude throughout the world. We have subdu'd those men of strange beleefe Which Christians call themselves; a race of people --This must I speake of them--as resolute And full of courage in their bleeding falls As should they tryumph for a Victory. When the last groanes of many thousand mett And like commixed Whirlwindes fill'd our eares. As it from us rais'd not a dust of pitty So did it give no terrour to the rest That did but live to see their fellows dye. In all our rigours and afflicting tortures We cannot say that we the men subdu'd, Because their ioy was louder than our conquest. And still more worke of blood we must expect; Like _Hydra's_ Heads by cutting off they double; As seed that multiplies, such are their dead-- Next Moone a sheafe of Christians in ones stead. _Vic_. This is a bloody Trade, my _Bellizarius_; Would thou wouldst give it over. _Belliz_. 'Tis worke, _Victoria_, that must be done. These are the battailes of our blessing, Pleasing gods and goddesses who for our service Render us these Conquests. Our selves and our affaires we may neglect, But not our Deities, which these Christians Prophane deride and scoffe at; would new Lawes Bring in and a new God make. _Vic_. No, my Lord; I have heard say they never make their Gods, But they serve 'em, they say, that did make them: All made-gods they dispise. _Belliz_. Tush, tush, _Victoria_, let not thy pitty Turne to passions; they'le not deserve thy sorrow. How now? What's the newes? _Enter a Souldier_. _Sold_. Strange, my Lord, beyond a wonder, For 'tis miraculous. Since you forsooke The bloody fight and horrour of the Christians, One tortur'd wretch, whose sight was quite extinct, His eyes no farther seeing than his hands, Is now by that _Eugenius_, whom they call Their holy Bishop, cleerely restor'd again To the astonishment of all your Army, Who faintly now recoyle with feare and terrour Not daring to offend so great a power. _Belliz_. Ha! 'tis strange thou tell'st me.