"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.