Pedr.  My thanks to all.—­Stay!

[Peeces dischargd.

Fer.  The Captaine of the Castle come to interpret That language to us?  What newes?

Enter Bustamente.

Bust.  Such as will make all Spaine dance in Canary.  The Brasile fleete—­

Pedr.  Arriv’d?

Bust.  Is putting into harbour, and aloud Calls for a Midwife:  she is great with gold And longs to be delivered.

Pedr.  No he Spanyard Is not a true reioycer at the newes:  Be’t a good omen to our Journey.

Ten.  So we wish all.

Pedr.  May we at our returne meet no worse newes Then now at parting.  My noble Don Fernando And Teniente, once more farewell, (my daughter, I hope)

Eleonora, Henrico,—­Nay, your good newes deserves a farewell.

Bust.  A soldier’s farewell, a fast hand and heart;
Good fate to both.
                                [Ex.  Pedr. and Man.

Hen.  Come, Elinor, let them discourse their Joyes For the safe fleete:  in thee all my delights Embarke themselves.

Bust.  Tush, lett ’em come; our shippes have brought with them The newes of warre.

Per.  What is that, Gentlemen?

Ten.  I am speaking of a fleete of Enemyes.

Per.  From whence?

Ten.  From England.

Fer.  A castle in the ayre.

Ten.  Doe you not believe it?

Fer.  I heard such a report, But had no faith in’t:  a mere Potgun![5]

Bust.  Nay, sir,
’Tis certaine there hath bene great preparation,
If our Intelligence be true to us;
And a mighty Navy threatens the sea.

Fer.  What’s that to us? 
How long hath it bene a voyce they were at sea! 
I have ventured to discharge the soldiers
Which to keepe here in pay upon the rumour
Of a great fleete a comming, would both pester
The Towne and be unnecessary charge
To the King our Master.

Ten.  But how if they intend us?

Fer.  ’Tis not probable: 
The time of yeare is past, sir, now; more then
The middle of October.  Had they meant us
We should have heard their message in loud Cannon
Before this time.

Bust.  I am of that opinion.

Ten.  But Don Fernando and Bustamente, call to mind
The time hath bene, when we supposed too
The season past, they have saluted us
With more then friendly Bulletts; tore the ribbs
Of our Towne up, made every house too hott
For the Inhabitants; had a spoyle of all,
Spight of our hearts.

Fer.  One Swallow makes not Summer:  because once Our City was their prize, is’t of necessity It must be so againe?