+Cle.+ A wretched thing! A very wretched thing! So scorn'd and poor, 'Twill scarce deserve man's pity; and I'm sure No arms can e'er relieve it. +Queen.+ Floriana, You yield too much to fear: misfortune brings Sorrow enough; 'tis envy[278] to ourselves T' augment it by prediction. _Enter +Sanmartino+._ +Cle.+ See, your lord! +San.+ Fly, madam, fly! The army of Castile, Conducted by an unknown leader, masters The town. Decastro, yielding up his fate To the prevailing enemy, is fled. +Cle.+ And shall the queen fly from her friends, my lord? +San.+ You have reason, madam. I begin to find Which way the gale of favour now will blow. I will address to the most fortunate. [_Exit +Sanmartino+._ +Queen.+ Some music, there! my thoughts grow full of trouble. I'll re-collect them. +Cle.+ May it please you, madam, To hear a song presented me this morning? +Queen.+ Play anything. SONG.[279] _Not the Phœnix in his death, Nor those banks, where violets grow, And Arabian winds still blow, Yield a perfume like her breath. But O! marriage makes the spell: And 'tis poison, if I smell._ _The twin-beauties of the skies (When the half-sunk sailors haste To rend sail, and cut their mast), Shine not welcome as her eyes. But those beams, than storms more black, If they point at me, I wrack._ _Then, for fear of such a fire, Which kills worse than the long night Which benumbs the Muscovite, I must from my life retire. But, O no! For, if her eye Warm me not, I freeze and die._ _During the song [the +Queen+ falls into a slumber, and] enter +Ascanio+, +Lerma+, +Sanmartino+, &c._ +Asc.+ Cease the uncivil murmur of the drum! Nothing sound now, but gentle; such as may not Disturb her quiet ear. Are you sure, Lerma, Th' obedient soldier hath put up his sword? +Ler.+ The citizen and soldier gratulate Each other, as divided friends new meeting: Nor is there execution done, but in pursuit Of th' enemy without the walls. +Asc.+ 'Tis very well. My lord, is that your queen? +San.+ It is the queen, sir. +Asc.+ Temper'd like the orbs Which, while we mortals weary life in battle, Move with perpetual harmony. No fear Eclipseth the bright lustre of her cheek, While we, who (infants) were swath'd up in steel, And in our cradle lull'd asleep by th' cannon, Grow pale at danger. +San.+ I'll acquaint her, sir, That you attend here.