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.

Look down, ye blessed above, look down: 
Oh! save us, save as, and our state restore;
For pity, pity, pity, we implore: 
For pity, pity, pity, we implore._
[The Procession goes off; and shout within.  Then