_Osw._ Ambitious fools we are, And yet ambition is a godlike fault; Or rather 'tis no fault in souls born great, Who dare extend their glory by their deeds.-- Now, Britany, prepare to change thy state, And from this day begin thy Saxon date. [_Exeunt._ _A Battle supposed to be given behind the Scenes, with Drums, Trumpets, and Military Shouts and Excursions; after which, the Britons, expressing their joy for the Victory, sing this Song of triumph._ _Come, if you dare, our trumpets sound; Come, if you dare, the foes rebound: We come, we come, we come, we come, Says the double, double, double beat of the thundering drum._ _Now they charge on amain, Now they rally again: The gods from above the mad labour behold, And pity mankind, that will perish for gold._ _The fainting Saxons quit their ground, Their trumpets languish in the sound: They fly, they fly, they fly, they fly_; Victoria, Victoria, _the bold Britons cry_. _Now the victory's won, To the plunder we run: We return to our lasses like fortunate traders, Triumphant with spoils of the vanquished invaders._ [Exeunt. ACT II. SCENE I. _Enter_ PHILIDEL. _Phil._ Alas, for pity, of this bloody field! Piteous it needs must be, when I, a spirit, Can have so soft a sense of human woes! Ah, for so many souls, as but this morn Were clothed with flesh, and warmed with vital blood, But naked now, or shirted but with air! MERLIN, _with Spirits, descends to_ PHILIDEL, _in a Chariot drawn by Dragons_. _Mer._ What art thou, spirit? of what name, or order? For I have viewed thee in my magic glass, Making thy moan among the midnight wolves, That bay the silent moon; speak, I conjure thee. 'Tis Merlin bids thee, at whose awful wand The pale ghost quivers, and the grim fiend gasps. _Phil._ An airy shape, the tenderest of my kind, The last seduced, and least deformed, of hell; Half-white, and shuffled in the crowd, I fell, Desirous to repent, and loth to sin; Awkward in mischief, piteous of mankind. My name is Philidel, my lot in air, Where, next beneath the moon, and nearest heaven, I soar, and have a glimpse to be received, For which the swarthy dæmons envy me. _Mer._ Thy business here? _Phil._ To shun the Saxon wizard's dire commands, Osmond, the awfullest name, next thine, below. 'Cause I refused to hurl a noisome fog On christened heads, the hue and cry of hell Is raised against me, for a fugitive sprite. _Mer._ Osmond shall know, a greater power protects thee. But follow thou the whispers of thy soul, That draw thee nearer heaven; And, as thy place is nearest to the sky, The rays will reach thee first, and bleach thy soot.