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The Mourning Bride.
7
Enter ALONZO. -
Alon.The Lord Gonsalez comes to tell your HighnessOf the King's approach.
Alm.Conduct him in. [Exit ALON.]That's his Pretence, I know his Errand isTo fill my Ears with Garcia's valiant Deeds;And with his artful Tongue, to gild and magnifieHis Son's Exploits.But I am arm'd with Ice around my Heart,Not to be warm'd with Words, nor idle Eloquence. -
Enter GONSALEZ. [Bowing very humbly. -]
Gons.Be ev'ry Day of your long Life like this.The Sun, bright Conquest, and your brighter Eyes,Have all conspir'd to blaze promiscuous Light,And bless this Day with most unequal Lustre.Your Royal Father, my Victorious Lord,Loaden with Spoils, and ever-living Lawrel,Is entring now, in Martial Pomp the Pallace.Five hundred Mules precede his solemn March,Which groan beneath the Weight of Moorish Wealth.Chariots of War, adorn'd with glittering Gems,Succeed; and next, a Hundred neighing Steeds,White as the fleecy Rain on Alpine Hills;That bound, and foam, and champ the Golden Bit,As they disdain'd the Victory they grace.Prisoners of War in shining Fetters follow;And Captains of the Noblest Blood of AfrickSweat by his Chariot Wheel, and lick and grind,With gnashing Teeth, the Dust his Triumphs raise.The swarming Populace spread every Wall,And cling, as if with Claws they did enforceTheir Hold, thro' clifted Stones, stretching and staring,As if they were all of Eyes, and every LimbWould feed his Faculty of Admiration.
While
