To chequer the sad prospect. O! if death

Came yoked with honour to me, I could, now,

Embrace it with as warm and willing rapture,

As mothers clasp their infants.

Enter La Gloire.

Now, La Gloire! what is the news?

La Gloire. Good faith, my lord, the saddest that ever tongue told!

Ribau. What is't?

La Gloire. The town has surrendered.

Ribau. I guessed as much.