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Pale cowled monarchs and red-sworded saints, Voluptuaries foul, and hard-eyed followers Of sordid gain—yea all detested things. She hath a common lake or sludge-pool been, In which each passing tide has left behind Some noisome sediment. She is choak'd up With mud and garbage to the very brim. Her citizens within her would full quietly A pagan's slaves become, would he but promise them The sure continuance of their slothful ease. Some few restraints upon their wonted habits And Mah'met's gold, no doubt, have rous'd the fools To this unwonted stir.

It may be so: I shall wait further tidings. Meantime, my friends, go ye, and as ye can, Snatch a short soldier's meal.(They hesitate.) Nay, go I pray you! I must not to my friends say "I command." And so thou say'stBut lo! another messenger.

The citizens in crowds—the men and women—