_Fer_. _Manuell_, I hope You will not long breath out of _Spanish_ ayre. Farewell! _Pedr_. My thanks to all.--Stay! [_Peeces dischargd_. _Fer_. The Captaine of the Castle come to interpret That language to us? What newes? _Enter Bustamente_. _Bust_. Such as will make all _Spaine_ dance in Canary. The _Brasile_ fleete-- _Pedr_. Arriv'd? _Bust_. Is putting into harbour, and aloud Calls for a Midwife: she is great with gold And longs to be delivered. _Pedr_. No he _Spanyard_ Is not a true reioycer at the newes: Be't a good omen to our Journey. _Ten_. So we wish all. _Pedr_. May we at our returne meet no worse newes Then now at parting. My noble _Don Fernando_ And _Teniente_, once more farewell, (my daughter, I hope) _Eleonora, Henrico_,--Nay, your good newes deserves a farewell. _Bust_. A soldier's farewell, a fast hand and heart; Good fate to both. [_Ex. Pedr. and Man_. _Hen_. Come, _Elinor_, let them discourse their Joyes For the safe fleete: in thee all my delights Embarke themselves. _Bust_. Tush, lett 'em come; our shippes have brought with them The newes of warre. _Per_. What is that, Gentlemen? _Ten_. I am speaking of a fleete of Enemyes. _Per_. From whence? _Ten_. From _England_. _Fer_. A castle in the ayre. _Ten_. Doe you not believe it? _Fer_. I heard such a report, But had no faith in't: a mere Potgun![5] _Bust_. Nay, sir, 'Tis certaine there hath bene great preparation, If our Intelligence be true to us; And a mighty Navy threatens the sea. _Fer_. What's that to us? How long hath it bene a voyce they were at sea! I have ventured to discharge the soldiers Which to keepe here in pay upon the rumour Of a great fleete a comming, would both pester The Towne and be unnecessary charge To the King our Master. _Ten_. But how if they intend us? _Fer_. 'Tis not probable: The time of yeare is past, sir, now; more then The middle of October. Had they meant us We should have heard their message in loud Cannon Before this time. _Bust_. I am of that opinion. _Ten_. But _Don Fernando_ and _Bustamente_, call to mind The time hath bene, when we supposed too The season past, they have saluted us With more then friendly Bulletts; tore the ribbs Of our Towne up, made every house too hott For the Inhabitants; had a spoyle of all, Spight of our hearts. _Fer_. One Swallow makes not Summer: because once Our City was their prize, is't of necessity It must be so againe? _Bust_. Or were the Navy Greater, as fame gives out it is the fayrest That ever danced upon these Seas, why yet Should we suspect for this Citty? _Fer_. Because we dreame soe. _Ten_. If you did dreame it may be as neare truth: I wish the contrary, but know them daring Enemyes. _Fer_. The world, we doe acknowledge, cannot boast More resolution then the _English_ hearts Seasond for action.