Soldiers drop down as thick, as if death mowed them;
As scythe-men trim the long-haired ruffian fields,
So fast they fall, so fast to fate life yields.
Enter Balthezar.
Bal. I have sweat much, and cannot find him—Andrea!
And. Prince Balthezar! O lucky minute!
Bal. O long-wished-for hour!
Are you remembered, Don,
Of a daring message and a proud attempt?
You braved me, Don, within my father’s court!