"Lo! the imperial squadrons thither steer,

  Aid to the leaguered city to convey;

  And lo! burnt, sunk, destroyed, they disappear,

  Encountered by the Doria in mid-way.

  Behold! how Fortune light does shift and veer,

  So friendly to the Frenchman till this day!

  Who slays their host with fever, not with lance;

  Nor of a thousand one returns to France.