_La Gloire._ Adieu!--At night!--Mercy on me!--should I stay three minutes longer, my heart would rescue my neck; for the breaking of one, would save the stretching of the other. [_Aside._--_Exit._ _Madelon._ How rich my La Gloire has got in the wars! My father, too, has something to throw in at our wedding: and, when we meet, we shall be the happiest couple in Picardy. SONG.--MADELON. _I tremble to think, that my soldier's so bold;_ _To see with what danger he gets all his gold;_ _Yet danger all over, 'twill keep out the cold,_ _And we shall be warm when we're married,_ _For riches, 'tis true that I covet them not,_ _Unless 'tis to better my dear soldier's lot;_ _And he shall be master of all I have got,_ _The very first moment we're married._ _My heart how it beats, but to look to the day,_ _In church, when my father will give me away!_ _But that I shall laugh at, I've heard many say,_ _A day or two after we're married._ [Exit. SCENE IV. _Calais._ _A Gate, leading out of the Town._ _Enter CITIZENS._ _1 Cit._ Stand back; they are coming. _3 Cit._ Nay, my masters, they will not forth, this quarter of an hour. Men seldom move lightly on such a heavy occasion. _4 Cit._ Who are the two others that have filled up the number? _3 Cit._ Marry, two more of old Eustache's family. His own son; and the other, as 'tis rumoured, a relation, in the town, that few of us are acquainted withal. _4 Cit._ That's strange. _3 Cit._ Why, ay; but when a man chuses a rope for his preferment, few are found envious enough to dispute the title with him.--By the rood! here they come! _Enter EUSTACHE de ST. PIERRE, RIBAUMONT, LA GLOIRE, JOHN D'AIRE, J. WISSANT, P. WISSANT, going to execution: a Procession of SOLDIERS, FRIARS, NUNS, &c. accompanying them.--A solemn March; then, a Halt._ _Ribau._ I pr'ythee, peace, Eustache! I fain would 'scape Observance from the rabble. Hurry o'er This irksome march; and straightway to the camp. _Eust._ Enough--Set forth! We are engaged, my friends, Upon a business here, which most, I wot, Do think of moment; and we would not waste The time in idle ceremony. On!-- Ere we are usher'd to the English camp, And most of you, I trust, will follow thither,-- We will bestow the little time allow'd us In manly leave-taking. Strike, and set onward! _Citizens._ Bless our countrymen! Bless our deliverers! GLEE.--_By the Persons of the Procession._ _Peace to the heroes! peace! who yield their blood,_ _And perish, nobly, for their country's good!_ _Peace to their noble souls! their bodies die;_ _Their fame shall flourish long in memory;_ _Recorded still, in future years,_ _Green in a nation's gratitude, and tears._ CHORUS.