FIFE.
A poor lad,
Who choosing play at hide and seek with death,
Just hid where death just came to look for him;
For there's no place, I think, can keep him out,
Once he's his eye upon you. All grows dark--
You glitter finely too--Well--we are dreaming
But when the bullet's off--Heaven save the mark!
So tell my mister--mastress--
(Dies.)

KING.
Oh God! How this poor creature's ignorance
Confounds our so-call'd wisdom! Even now
When death has stopt his lips, the wound through which
His soul went out, still with its bloody tongue
Preaching how vain our struggle against fate!

(Voices within).
After them! After them! This way! This way!
The day is ours--Down with Basilio, etc.

AST.
Fly, sir--

KING.
And slave-like flying not out-ride
The fate which better like a King abide!

(Enter Segismund, Rosaura, Soldiers, etc.)