University of Virginia Library

SCENE IX.

Madrigal, Lyric, Poet.
Po.
Away, my chief; the day is lost!
Goosino to the flying foe oppos'd
His ireful point, and cut off all retreat—
Like hunted boars, in wild despair they turn'd
On their pursuers, madly fought, and conquer'd—
Heaps of Parnassian carcases are pil'd
Olympus-high—Acrostic bites the plain—
Fustiano fled—scarce half a score of bards
Are left alive to grace the victor's car.

Mad.
Death and damnation! oh!

Po.
I bring alas!
Yet heavier tydings—With dishevell'd hair,
Thy mobless queen rush'd through the ranks of death,
Almost alone, amidst a croud of foes,
In search of thee—a random bodkin reach'd
Her tender bosom—but I can no more—
Tears choak my utt'rance.

Mad.
O ye cruel gods!