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.
390 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.