I dread his tale, God grant it may be good!
Enter Messenger.
Mess.Yes, my lord.
Bas.What tidings brings't thou?
Mess. Th' imperial army, under brave Piscaro,
Have beat the enemy near Pavia's walls.
Bas. Ha! have they fought? and is the battle o'er?
Mess. Yes, conquer'd; ta'en the French king prisoner.
Who, like a noble, gallant gentleman,
Fought to the last, nor yielded up his sword
Till, being one amidst surrounding foes,
His arm could do no more.
Bas. What dost thou say? who is made prisoner?
What king did fight so well?
Mess.The king of France;
Bas. Thou saidst—thy words do ring so in mine ears,
I cannot catch their sense—the battle's o'er?
Mess. It is, my lord. Piscaro staid your coming,
But could no longer stay. His troops were bold.
Occasion press'd him, and they bravely fought—
They bravely fought, my lord.
Bas.I hear, I hear thee,
Accurs'd am I, that it should wring my heart
To hear they bravely fought.—
They bravely fought, whilst we lay ling'ring here;
O! what a fated blow to strike me thus!
Perdition! shame! disgrace! a damned blow!
