1st Tai. You are too strict a convertite; let's in.
[Exit.
After a confused noise within, enter Raymond, Leonis, Gilberti, hastily.
Ray. What means this capering echo?
Or whence did this so lively counterfeit
Of thunder break out [in] to liberty?
Gil. 'Tis from the city.
Ray. It cannot be their voice should outroar Jove;
Our army, like a basilisk, has struck
Death through their eyes; our number, like a wind,
Broke from the icy prison of the north,
Has froze the portals to their shivering hearts;
They scarce have breath enough to speak't
They live.
[A shout within.
Gil. 'Tis certainly from thence.
Leo. Y' are deceived, poor Spaniards! Fear
Has chang'd their elevated gait to a dejection:
They're planet-struck.
Ray. 'Tis from our jocund fleet, my genius prompts me;
They have already plough'd th' unruly seas,
And with their breasts, proof 'gainst the battering
Waves, dash'd the big billows into angry froth,
And, spite of the contentious foul-mouth'd gods
Of sea and wind, have reach'd the city frontiers,
And [have] begirt her navigable skirts.
Again! 'tis so.