t there they lie:
Best send our women out to take the tale;
There's circumcision in abundance for them. [_Turns to_ PEDRO _again._

_Alph._ How far did you pursue them?

_Lor._ Some few miles.--
[_To Pedro_] Good store of harlots, say you, and dog-cheap?
Pedro, they must be had, and speedily;
I've kept a tedious fast. [_Whisper again._

_Alph._ When will he make his entry? he deserves
Such triumphs as were given by ancient Rome:
Ha, boy, what say'st thou?

_Lor._ As you say, sir, that Rome was very ancient.
[_To Pedro._] I leave the choice to you; fair, black, tall, low,
Let her but have a nose; and you may tell her,
I am rich in jewels, rings, and bobbing pearls,
Plucked from Moors' ears.

_Alph._ Lorenzo.

_Lor._ Somewhat busy
About affairs relating to the public.--
A seasonable girl, just in the nick now-- [_To Pedro._
[_Trumpets within._

_Ped._ I hear the general's trumpet. Stand and mark
How he will be received; I fear, but coldly.
There hung a cloud, methought, on Bertran's brow.

_Lor._ Then look to see a storm on Torrismond's;
Looks fright not men. The general has seen Moors
With as bad faces; no dispraise to Bertran's.

_Ped._ 'Twas rumoured in the camp, he loves the queen.

_Lor._ He drinks her health devoutly.

_Alph._ That may breed bad blood betwixt him and Bertran.

_Ped._ Yes, in private.
But Bertran has been taught the arts of court,
To gild a face with smiles, and leer a man to ruin,
O here they come.--

_Enter_ TORRISMOND _and Officers on one Side,_ BERTRAN _attended on
the other; they embrace,_ BERTRAN _bowing low._

Just as I prophesied.--

_Lor._ Death and hell, he laughs at him!--in his face too.

_Ped._ O you mistake him; 'twas an humble grin,
The fawning joy of courtiers and of dogs.

_Lor._ Here are nothing but lies to be expected: I'll even go lose
myself in some blind alley, and try if any courteous damsel will think
me worth the finding. [_Aside, and Exit._

_Alph._ Now he begins to open.

_Bert._ Your country rescued, and your queen relieved,--
A glorious conquest, noble Torrismond!
The people rend the skies with loud applause,
And heaven can hear no other name but yours.
The thronging crowds press on you as you pass,
And with their eager joy make triumph slow.

_Torr._ My lord, I have no taste
Of popular applause; the noisy praise