_ 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_

_Enter_ LORENZO, _who kneels to_ ALPHONSO.

_Bert._ [_To Alph._] A joyful cry; and see your son
Lorenzo. Good news, kind heaven!

_Alph._ [_To Lor._]
O welcome, welcome! is the general safe?
How near our army? when shall we be succoured?
Or, are we succoured? are the Moors removed?
Answer these questions first, and then a thousand more;
Answer them all together.

_Lor._ Yes, when I have a thousand tongues, I will.
The general's well; his army too is safe,
As victory can make them. The Moors' king
Is safe enough, I warrant him, for one.
At dawn of day our general cleft his pate,
Spite of his woollen night-cap: a slight wound;
Perhaps he may recover.

_Alph._ Thou reviv'st me.

_Ped._ By my computation now, the victory was gained before the
procession was made for it; and yet it will go hard but the priests
will make a miracle of it.

_Lor._ Yes, faith; we came like bold intruding guests,
And took them unprepared to give us welcome.
Their scouts we killed, then found their body sleeping;
And as they lay confused, we stumbled o'er them,
And took what joint came next, arms, heads, or legs,
Somewhat indecently. But when men want light,
They make but bungling work.

_Bert._ I'll to the queen,
And bear the news.

_Ped._ That's young Lorenzo's duty.

_Bert._ I'll spare his trouble.--
This Torrismond begins to grow too fast;
He must be mine, or ruined. [_Aside, and Exit._

_Lor._ Pedro a word:--[_whisper._]

_Alph._ How swift he shot away! I find it stung him,
In spite of his dissembling.
[_To Lorenzo._] How many of the enemy are slain?

_Lor._ Troth, sir, we were in haste, and could not stay
To score the men we killed; bu