1ST TAI. O, they are proud in that they rescu'd you, And my blood of honour; since you are pleas'd To grace the now declining trade of tailors By being shrouded in their homely clothes, And deck a shop-board with your noble person; The taunting scorns the foul-mouth'd world can throw Upon our needful calling shall be answered: They injure honour, since your honour is a Noble practitioner in our mystery. GIO. Cheer up, Antonio, take him in. The rest will make him merry; I'd go try The temper of a sword upon some shield That guards a foe. Pray for my good success. [_Exit._ 1ST TAI. Come, come, my lord, leave melancholy To hired slaves, that murther at a price: Yours was---- ANT. No more: flatter not [so] my sin. 1ST TAI. You are too strict a convertite; let's in. [_Exit._ _After a confused noise within, enter_ RAYMOND, LEONIS, GILBERTI, _hastily_. RAY. What means this capering echo? Or whence did this so lively counterfeit Of thunder break out [in] to liberty? GIL. 'Tis from the city. RAY. It cannot be their voice should outroar Jove; Our army, like a basilisk, has struck Death through their eyes; our number, like a wind, Broke from the icy prison of the north, Has froze the portals to their shivering hearts; They scarce have breath enough to speak't They live. [_A shout within._ GIL. 'Tis certainly from thence. LEO. Y' are deceived, poor Spaniards! Fear Has chang'd their elevated gait to a dejection: They're planet-struck. RAY. 'Tis from our jocund fleet, my genius prompts me; They have already plough'd th' unruly seas, And with their breasts, proof 'gainst the battering Waves, dash'd the big billows into angry froth, And, spite of the contentious foul-mouth'd gods Of sea and wind, have reach'd the city frontiers, And [have] begirt her navigable skirts. Again! 'tis so. [_Again within._ GIL. My creed's another way; I have no faith but to the city. _Alarum._ _Enter a_ SOLDIER _bloody_. LEO. Here's one: Now we shall know. Ha! he appears Like one compos'd of horror. RAY. What speaks thy troubled front? LEO. Speak, crimson meteor. RAY. Speak, prodigy, or on my sword thou fall'st. SOL. The bold Spaniards, setting aside all cold acknowledgment of any odds, or notice of the number our army is made proud with, sends from their walls more lightning than great Jove affrights the trembling world with, when the air is turn'd to mutiny. RAY. Villain, thou liest; 'twere madness to believe thee. Foolish Spain may, like those giants that heap hill on hill, mountain on mountain, to pluck Jove from heaven, who with a hand of vengeance flung 'em down beneath the centre, and those cloud-contemning mounts heav'd by the strength of their ambitious arms, became their monuments; so Spain's rash folly from this arm of mine shall find their graves amongst the rubbish of their ruin'd cities. _Enter a second_ SOLDIER. What, another! thy hasty news?