_Ped._ Nay, for my part, 'tis but a single life I have to lose. I'll plant my colours down In the mid-breach, and by them fix my foot; Say a short soldier's prayer, to spare the trouble Of my new friends above; and then expect The next fair bullet. _Alph._ Never was known a night of such distraction; Noise so confused and dreadful; jostling crowds. That run, and know not whither; torches gliding, Like meteors, by each other in the streets. _Ped._ I met a reverend, fat, old gouty friar,-- With a paunch swoll'n so high, his double chin Might rest upon it; a true son of the church; Fresh-coloured, well thriven on his trade,-- Come puffing with his greasy bald-pate choir, And fumbling o'er his beads in such an agony, He told them false, for fear. About his neck There hung a wench, the label of his function, Whom he shook off, i'faith, methought, unkindly. It seems the holy stallion durst not score Another sin, before he left the world. _Enter a Captain._ _Capt._ To arms, my lord, to arms! From the Moors' camp the noise grows louder still: Rattling of armour, trumpets, drums, and ataballes; And sometimes peals of shouts that rend the heavens, Like victory: then groans again, and howlings, Like those of vanquished men; but every echo Goes fainter off, and dies in distant sounds. _Bert._ Some false attack: expect on t'other side. One to the gunners on St Jago's tower; bid them, for shame, Level their cannon lower: On my soul They are all corrupted with the gold of Barbary, To carry over, and not hurt the Moor. _Enter a second Captain._ _2 Capt._ My lord, here's fresh intelligence arrived. Our army, led by valiant Torrismond, Is now in hot engagement with the Moors; 'Tis said, within their trenches. _Bert._ I think all fortune is reserved for him!-- He might have sent us word though; And then we could have favoured his attempt With sallies from the town. _Alph._ It could not be: We were so close blocked up, that none could peep Upon the walls and live. But yet 'tis time. _Bert._ No, 'tis too late; I will not hazard it: On pain of death, let no man dare to sally. _Ped._ Oh envy, envy, how it works within him! [_Aside._ How now? what means this show? _Alph._ 'Tis a procession. The queen is going to the great cathedral, To pray for our success against the Moors. _Ped._ Very good: she usurps the throne, keeps the old king in prison, and, at the same time, is praying for a blessing. Oh religion and roguery, how they go together! [_A Procession of Priests and Choristers in White, with Tapers, followed by the Queen and Ladies, goes over the Stage: the Choristers singing,_ _Look down, ye blessed above, look down, Behold our weeping matrons' tears, Behold our tender virgins' fears, And with success our armies crown.