Sol.  That must I, Captayne.

Bow.  You, Rafe Nod? zounds, soldiers, follow my discipline, say your prayers, you are all dead men, all dust and ashes, all wormes meat.

Lieu.  How so, Captayne?

Bow.  Doe you make him Sentronell? s’hart heele nod[119] presently:  and he do not sleepe sitting upon the poynt of a Spanish needle, Dicke Bowyer’s a very shittle-cocke. Nod! zounds, he is one of the nine sleepers, a very Dormouse:  & I had a pageant to present of the seven deadly Sinnes[120], he should play Slouth; and he did not sleepe when he should speake his part I am a Badger.

Soul.  That’s true; you have halfe the nature of a Badger, for one leg is shorter then another.

Bow.  Zounds, you Rogue, doe not you know that?  Ile tell you:  s’hart and I lye, call me Jebuzite.  Once as I was fighting in S. Georges fields, and blind Cupid seeing me and taking me for some valiant Achilles, he tooke his shaft and shot me right into the left heele; and ever since Dick Bowyer hath beene lame.  But my heart is as sound as a bell:  heart of Oake, spirit, spirit!  Lieutenant, discharge Nod and let Cricket stand Sentronell till I come.

Lieu.  He shall, Captayne.

Bow.  On afore! strike Drum, march soldiers, keep your place, Nod.  Lusty, my harts, for the honour of England and our brave General the Earle of Pembrooke! [Exeunt soldiers.] So I have discharg’d my selfe of these.  Hot shot![121] now to my love.  Some may say the tale of Venus loving Mars is a fable, but he that is a true soldier and a Gent. as Dick Bowyer is, & he do not love some varlet or other, zounds he is worse then a gaping Oyster without liquor.  There’s a pretty sweet fac’t mother[122] that waits on the princesse that I have some mind to; but a whorson Architophel, a parasite, a rogue, one whose face looks worse then a Tailors cushen of old shreds and colours, zounds like a weavers leg in an old ditch feeding horseleaches; & this trotter is my ryval & loves Thomasin:  his name is Peter de Lions, but s’hart (I will not sweare neither) if I do not turne Rich. Cor de Lion with him, if I do not teare out his heart and eate it with mustard, let him say Dick Bowyer’s a Mackarell.  Yonder hee comes with my property hand in hand.  Zounds!  I say nothing, but ile heare what they say and determine afterward.

    Enter Peter and Thomasin.

Pet.  Thomasin, you know me, I hate prolixity:  in a word, my humour is thus, I love.

Bow.—­And I do not spoyle that humor, so—­

Pet.  Your answere compendiously & avoyd prolixity.

Tom.  Mary muffe[123]! by Jesu I scorne to humble the least part about me to give answere to such a trothing question:  as I live it joults mine eares worse in hearing then the princes coach on a broken cawsey.