_De Vienne._ Thus, then: I have a daughter, look you; here she stands; Right fair and virtuous;-- [_COUNT attempts to speak._ Nay, Count, spare your speech; I know I've your assent to the position: I have a king too; and from whom 'tis signified My daughter must be match'd with (speedily) A certain lord about the royal person.-- Now, tho' there may be some, whose gallant bearing (And glean from this, Count, what it is I aim at,) I might be proud to be allied to, yet Being a veteran French soldier, stuff'd With right enthusiastic loyalty, My house, myself, my child--Heaven knows I love her!-- Should perish, piece-meal, ere I could infringe The faintest line or trace of the proceeding, The king, our master, honours me in marking. _Rib._ I do conceive you, sir. _De Vienne._ Why, then, conceiving, Once more, right welcome, Count. I lodge you here, As my good friend--and Julia's friend--the friend To all our city.--Tut, Count, love is boys' play; A soldier has not time for't.-- Come, Count.----Within there, hoa! we need refreshment, Which you have furnish'd.--Love? pish! love's a gew-gaw. Nay, come, Count, come. [_Exit._ _Julia._ Sir, will it please you follow? _Rib._ I fain would speak one word, and--'sdeath! I cannot.-- Pardon me, madam; I attend.--Oh, Julia! [_Exit, leading out JULIA._ _O'Carrol._ Och ho! poor dear creatures, my heart bleeds for them. To be sure the ould gentleman means all for the best, and what he talks must be right: but if love is a gew-gaw, as he says, by my soul! 'tis the prettiest plaything for children, from sixteen to five-and-twenty, that ever was invented! [_Exit._ SCENE IV. _The English Camp._ _Enter KING, SIR WALTER MANNY, HARCOURT, ARUNDEL, WARWICK, and ATTENDANTS._ _King._ Fie, lords! it slurs our name;--the town is succour'd. 'Twas dull neglect to let them pass: a blot Upon our English camp; where vigilance Should be the watch-word. Which way got they in? _Sir W._ By sea, as we do learn, my gracious liege? _King._ Where was our fleet then? does it ride the ocean In idle mockery? It should float to awe These Frenchmen here. How are they stored, my lord? _Harc._ Barely, as it should seem. Their crazy vessel, Driven among the rocks, that skirt the shore, Let in the waves so fast upon the cargo, The better half is either sunk or spoilt. They scarce can hold another day, my liege. _King._ Thanks to the sea for't--not our Admiral. They brave it, stubborn, to the very last:-- But they shall smart for't shortly; smart severely. Meantime, prepare we for our Queen; who comes From England, deck'd in conquest. Say, Lord Harcourt, Are all prepared to welcome her arrival?