n heartless number, spent with watching,
And harassed out with duty.

_Bert._ Good-night all, then.

_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.