La Var. Death and shame!
Are these the rough, and hardy northern men,
That were to back my Normans? Why, they fly,
Like skimming shadows, o'er a mountain's side,
Chased by the sun.
Fool. True; the heat of the battle is too strong for their cold constitutions.
La Var. Here, sirrah, take this token to the King:—
Go with your utmost speed: entreat him, quickly,
To bring his forces in reserve. This effort
Restores, or kills, our hope.—Yet I'll fight all out;
I'll shake these pillars of the White-rose House
Till the whole building totters, tho' its fall
Should crush me in the ruins. [Exit.
Fool. Well said, Sampson—that's a bold fellow, and I'm on his side. Red roses for ever!
Enter a Soldier, of the White Rose Party.
Soldier. Now, fellow, speak! tell me who you fight for.
Fool. Marry, will I, very willingly. Pray canst tell who has the best of the battle?
Soldier. The White Rose, to be sure: we are the strongest.
Fool. Thank you, friend: pass on—I'm on your side. [Exit Soldier.] A low clown, now, might stagger at this shifting; but your true, court-bred fool, always cuts the cloth of his conscience to the fashion of the times. [Exit.
Enter Gregory and Adeline, hastily.
Gregory. Run, run, madam! follow a blockhead's advice, and run, or 'tis all over with us.
Adeline. Whither shall I fly! Fatigue and despair so wear and press me, I scarcely know what course to take.
Gregory. Take to your legs, madam! Get on now, or we shall never be able to get off. Come, my dear, good, Lady Adeline! Lord! Lord! only to see now, what little resolution people have, that they can't run away when there's danger. [Shout.] Plague on your shouting! Since they must make soldiers of us—the light troops against the field, say I!
[Exit, running, followed by Adeline.
Alarm—Shout—and Retreat sounded.
SCENE V.
Open Country.
Enter the Marquis of Montague, Egbert, and other Lords of the White Rose Party, Soldiers, &c.
Mont. Cheerly, my valiant friends! the field is ours.
The scatter'd Roses of the Lancasters,
Now deeper tinted, blush a double red,
In shame of this defeat. Oh! this will much
Rejoice King Edward!—Say, has any friend
Made Henry sure?
Egbert. He is escaped alone, my lord! and Margaret,
Who, with her little son, went, hand in hand,
Hovering about the field, with anxious hope,
Ev'n to the very last; when she perceived
Her lines broke thro'—her troops almost dispersed,—
She hung upon her boy, in silent anguish,
Till the big tear dropt in his lily neck:
Then, kissing him, as by a sudden impulse,
Which mothers feel, she snatch'd him to her bosom,
And fled with her young treasure in her arms:——
Nature so spoke in't, that our very soldiers
Were soften'd at the scene, and, dull'd with pity,
Grew sluggish in pursuit.
Mont. Well, let them go:—
Their cause is, now, become so weak, and sickly,
That, tho' the head exist, to plot fresh mischief,
They will want limbs to execute,—Their House,
(Once strong and mighty,) like a a palsied Hercules,
Must, now, lament it has outlived its powers.—
Meantime, as we return, in pride of conquest,
Let us impress the minds of Englishmen
With new-won glories of the House of York.
Strike drum!—Sound trumpet!—Let the air be rent,
With high and martial songs of victory.
GRAND CHORUS.
Strike!—the God of Conquest sheds
His choicest laurels on our heads:
Mars, with fury-darting eye,
Smooths his brow, and stalks before us;
Leading our triumphant chorus,
Hand in hand, with victory.
And hark! the thund'ring drum, and fife's shrill tone,
With brazen trumpet's clang, proclaim the day our own.
[Huzzas.
ACT THE SECOND.
SCENE I.
A Cave, in Hexham Forest; in which Robbers are discovered, drinking.
OLD GLEE, AND OLD WORDS.
When Arthur first, in court, began
To wear long hanging-sleeves,
He entertain'd three serving-men,
And all of them were thieves.
The first he was an Irishman,
The second was a Scot,
The third he was a Welshman,
And all were knaves, I wot.
The Irishman, he loved Usquebaugh,
The Scot loved ale, called blue-cap;
The Welshman he loved toasted cheese,
And made his mouth like a mouse-trap.
Usquebaugh burnt the Irishman,
The Scot was drown'd in ale;
The Welshman had like t' have been choak'd with a mouse,
But he pull'd her out by the tail.
1 Rob. Sung like true and noble boys of plunder! Isn't this free-booting spirit, now, better than leading a cowardly life of musty regularity? Honesty is a scarce and tender commodity, that perishes almost as soon as it appears:—the rich man is not known to have it, for fortune has never put him to the test; and the poor blockhead, that boasts on't, dies for hunger in proving it.
2 Rob. Right; it is but a fever in the blood, that soon kills the patient if it be not expelled.—I had the fever, once.
4 Rob. And what was your cure for't?
2 Rob. Starving. Ever while you live, starve your fever:—when honesty is your case, only call in poverty as physician, and the disease soon yields to his prescriptions.
1 Rob. Pshaw! plague on your physic? aren't we taking our wine in the full vigour of roguery? This it is [Holding the Bottle.] that gives courage to poor knaves to knock down rich fools, in the forest;—just as it gives rich fools spirits to sally forth, and break poor knaves' heads, in the town. Come, as I'm Lieutenant, and our Captain is prowling, let's to business:—read over the list of our yesterday's booties.
2 Rob. Agreed! but, first, one more round; one health; one general health, and then we'll to't.
1 Rob. Here it is then—here's a short, little, snug, general health, that hits most humours; it suits your soldier, your tithe parson, your lawyer, your politician, just as well as your robber.
All. Now for it. [All rise.
1 Rob. Plunder! [Drinks.
All. Plunder! [All drink.
1 Rob. And now for the list.
2 Rob. [Reads.] Hexham Forest, May 14th, 1462. Taken, from a single lady, on a pad nag, eleven pounds, four groats, and a portmanteau.—She seemed marvellously frightened, and whispered thanks, privately, for her delivery.
1 Rob. No uncommon case—she isn't the first single lady who has been delivered, and whispered thanks for it in private.
2 Rob. From a Scotch laird, on his way from London to Inverness—by Philip Thunder in gloves; the whole provision for his journey, viz. one cracked angel, and two sticks of brimstone.
1 Rob. Who has his horse?
2 Rob. No one; the Scotch laird travelled on foot. From a pair of justices of the peace, a foundered mare, a black gelding, two doublets, and a hundred marks in gold—they were tied back to back;—
1 Rob. Good! It is but right, that they who bind over so many, should at last, be bound over themselves; and a wise thief is ever bound in justice to put a foolish justice in binding.
2 Rob. Back to back, and hoodwinked—They were left, lamenting their fate, in the forest.
1 Rob. Lament! O villains!—To be in the commission of the peace, and not know that Justice should always be blind. Marry, a good day! Are there any more?
2 Rob. Only a fat friar, who was half plundered, and saved himself by flight.
1 Rob. The better fortune his. Few fat friars, I fancy, have the luck to be saved. What did he yield?
2 Rob. The rope from his middle, a bottle of sack from his bosom, and a link of hog's puddings, pulled out of his left sleeve.
1 Rob. Gad a mercy, friar! For the sack, and the sausages, they shall be shared, merrily, among us; and for the rope,—hum!—come, we won't think of that, now. [A Horn wound lowly.] Hark! there's our Captain's horn!—'faith, for one who, I suspect is married, he chuses an odd signal of approach.
2 Rob. Nay, though he may be married, he's no milksop; and, I warrant him, when he's on duty, and robbing among us, he quite forgets his wife, as an honest man should do. He has joined us but a short time, yet, egad, he heads us nobly! He'll pluck you an hundred crowns from a rich fellow's pocket, with one hand, and throw his share of them into a hungry beggar's hat, with the other. But, here he comes.
Enter Gondibert.
All. Hail, noble Captain!
Gondi. How now, my bold and rugged companions! What has been done in my absence?
1 Rob. Oh, sir, a deal of business—We have been washing down old scores, and getting vigour for new. We have had a cup for every breach of the law we have committed. Marry, sir, ours is a rare cellar, to stand such a soaking.
Gondi. Now then, to a business of greater import. I have been lurking round the camp, here, on the skirts of the forest. The parties have met, and a hot battle ensued. It was a long time fought with such stubborn courage, that, as I stood observing it, the spirit of war, pent up within me, had well nigh burst my breast.—Twenty times, I was at the point of breaking from my shelter, and joining combat. But I am pledged to you, my fellows;—that thought restrained me.
2 Rob. O, noble Captain!—but who has conquered?
Gondi. Ay, there it is:—'sdeath and fury, my blood boiled to see it! The sleek, upstart rascals, cut through the ranks as if—oh! a plague on their well feeding!—We had carried it else, all the world to nothing!
2 Rob. We! why what is it to us who has the day? Do but tell us who.
Gondi. I had forgot. The Lancasters are defeated, their soldiers routed, and many of their leaders dispersed about the country. Some, no doubt, are in the forest. Usurping war never glutted on a richer banquet.
1 Rob. Why, it seems to have been a pretty feast; and, the best on't is, now 'tis over, we shall come in for the picking of the bones.
Gondi. It may be so. You all, I know, will expect a rich booty; and they whom we shall meet will, probably, from the unsettled nature of the times, bear their whole wealth about their persons:—but they are brave, and have been oppressed;—disappointment, therefore, and their situation, may cause them to fight in their defence, like heros.
2 Rob. Nay, an they fight like devils, they'll find we can match them in courage. Put me to any proof you please, and they shall soon find me a man.
Gondi. Then, prove it, friend, by pity for the unfortunate. Believe me, comrades, he has little better to boast than a brute, who cannot temper his courage with feeling. And, now, as our expedition is at hand, let each of you observe my orders. If there be any whose appearance denotes a more than common birth, treat him with due respect, and conduct him to my cave. As to the plunder (which our wild life obliges us to exact from the way-worn passenger) on this occasion, pr'ythee, good comrades, take sparingly, and use your prisoners generously.
4 Rob. [Half aside, and muttering.] 'Sblood! this captain of ours had better take to the pulpit than the road. If he must preach so plaguily about generosity, he might, at least, pay for it out of his own pocket.
Gondi. Who's he that dares to mutter? Come forth, thou wretch! Thus do I punish mutiny, and presumption. [Pulls him down, and holds his Sword over him.
4 Rob. Oh, mercy! good Captain, mercy!
Gondi. Well, take it, though thou deservest none; and learn from this, thou poor, base reptile! how to show mercy to others whom fortune places in thy power. Now, friends, all to your posts. I shall go forth alone. You have your orders, and I know you will obey them strictly. The night steals on us apace; and the angry clouds, threatning a storm, add to the awful gloom of the forest. Away, boys! and be steady.
1 Rob. As rocks, Captain. Come, bullies! all to your duties. Keep your ears, and lose your tongues. Listen, in silence, for the tread of a passenger; and, when he's near enough, spring upon him, like so many cats at a mouse hole.
CATCH.
"Buz, quoth the blue-fly."
Lurk o'er the green-sword;
Mum let us be:—
Lurk, and mum's the word,
For you and me!
Thro' the brake, thro' the wood, prowl, prowl around!
We watch the footsteps, with ears to the ground.
Ears to the ground.
[Exeunt Robbers.
Gondi. Here is another moment snatch'd—a short one—
To commune with myself:—yet, wherefore, think?
Why court consuming sorrow to my bosom,
Which, like the nurs'ling pelican, drinks the blood
Of its fond cherisher?
Why rather should not turbulence of action
Shake off the tax of tyrannous remembrance?
'Tis not the mere, and actual suffering,
That bends the noble spirit to the earth,
And cracks the proud heart's chord:—The prisoner,
Whose feverish limbs, for many a long, long year,
No summer breeze has fann'd, might still be patient,—
Did not remembrance, yoked with cursed comparison,
Enter his dungeon walls, and conjure up
The shadows of past joys;—then, thought on thought,
Like molten lead, run thro' the wretch's brain,
And burning fancy mads him.—Hence, Remembrance!
How baneful art thou to me, when this course
Must be thy antidote! I'll thro' the forest,
And seek these wanderers.—Fell necessity,
And the rude band that I am link'd withal,
Demand that I should prey on them:—yet, still,
My heart leans to them, tho' their fatal cause
Has shorn me to the quick:—for them I fled
My home, my dear loved——Oh, peace, Gondibert!
Touch not that string!—If I must think, I'll think
That Heaven one day may smile. [Exit.
SCENE II.
Part of the Forest.
Enter Adeline and Gregory.
Gregory. Gently, good madam; gently, for the love of corns! Where is it you mean to go?
Adeline. Even where chance shall carry us, Gregory.
Gregory. 'Faith, madam, and if chance would carry us, it would be doing us a great favour; for we have walked far enough, in all conscience.
Adeline. Then, here, my good fellow, we must rest ourselves.
Gregory. Here! what in the wood? and night coming on!
Adeline. Good faith even here!—here, for necessity demands it, we must pass the night: and, in the morning, the ring-dove, cooing to its mate, will wake us to our journey homeward. This is a retreat, were but the mind at ease, a king might well repose in.
Gregory. It must be King Nebuchadnezzar then: if we haven't some of his grass-eating qualities, we shall find ourselves badly off for a supper. 'Tis ten to one, too, but we may wander here for a week, without finding our way out again.
Adeline. Oh! this world! this world! I am weary on't! 'Would I had been some villager!—'twere well, now, to be a shepherd's boy—he has no cares—but while his sheep browse on the mountain's side, with vacant mind—happy in ignorance—he sinks to sleep, o'ercanopied with heaven, and makes the turf his pillow.
Gregory. Yes, but he has plaguy damp sheets, for all that. I'd exchange all the turf and sky in the county, for a good warm barn and a blanket; and as for the cooing doves, I would not give a crack'd tester for a forest full of them; unless I could see some of their claws stuck up through the holes of a brown piecrust.
Adeline. Fie! Gregory; be content, be content. Think that we are happy in this forest, in having thus escaped the enemy's fire, and be grateful in the change.
Gregory. Why, we are out of the fire, to be sure; but, make the best on't we can, we are still in the frying-pan. And starving is one of those blessings for which people are not very apt to be thankful. But we have escaped killing; so I'll e'en be content, as long as there is comfort in comparison. I stumbled over a fat trumpeter in the field, stript and plunder'd, with his skin full of bullets. Well, I am thankful yet—mine is a marvellous happy lot, to be better than a dead trumpeter!
Adeline. Truce now, Gregory; and consider how we can best dispose ourselves here, till the morning.
Gregory. Nay, there's no need of much consideration; there's little distinction of apartments here, madam: we shall both sleep on the ground floor—and our lodgings will be pure and airy, I warrant them.
Adeline. Peace, fool! nor let thy grosser mind, half fears, half levity, thus trifle with my feelings! I have borne me up against affliction, till my o'ercharged bosom can contain no longer.
Gregory. O the father! look if my poor dear lady be not a weeping!—why, madam—Lady Adeline—dear madam! I am but a fool as you say; but I'm as honest and as faithful as the greatest knave of them all:—and haven't I sighed, sobbed, fasted, fought, and run away, to show you that I would stand by you to the last? and haven't I——
Adeline. Pr'ythee, no more, Gregory! bear with, my pettishness—for, now and then, the tongue of disappointment will needs let fall some of the acid drops which misery sprinkles the heart withal.
Gregory. Now must I play the comforter. Why, lord, madam, I think, when a body comes to be used to it a little, this forest must be a sweet, dingy, retired, gloomy, pleasant sort of a place;—besides, what's one night? sleeping bears it out—and I'll warrant us we'll find such snug delicious beds of dry leaves, that— [Hard shower.] 'Sbud! no!—I lie—it rains like all the dogs and cats in the kingdom—there won't be a dry twig left, large enough to shelter a cock-chafer—we shall both be sopped here, like two toasts in a tankard— [Thunder.
Adeline. Why, why should fortune sport with a weak woman thus! why, fickle goddess, wanton as boys in giddy cruelty, torture a silly fly before you kill it?
Gregory. 'Faith, madam, for that matter, I am but a blue-bottle of fortune's myself; and, though sorrow is dry, they say, this is a sort of soaking it does not care to be moistened with. If it would rain good barrels of ale, now, sorrow would not so much mind being out in the storm. [Thunder again.] No; sorrow would be disappointed there too: this rumbling is enough to flatten the finest beer shower, a man would wish to take a whet in.—Lud! lud! madam! let's get out ou't, if there's a hollow tree to be found. [Thunder.
Adeline. The thunder rolls awful on the ear, and strikes the soul with terror. The plunderer, too, perhaps catching the sulphurous flash, explores his wretched prey, and stalks to midnight murder.
Gregory. Mercy on us, madam, don't talk of that!—now I think on't, if we were to pick and chuse, for a twelvemonth, we couldn't have pitched upon a more convenient place to be knocked down in. Shelter! dear madam! shelter.
Adeline. Is it thus you stand by me, Gregory? I, at least, hoped you had valour enough to—
[Robbers appear behind, and slowly advance.
Gregory. Exactly enough; but not a morsel to spare. So we'll e'en look out for a place of safety. Not that I'm afraid though.—Stand by you?—egad, if half a dozen, now, of stout, raw-boned fellows were to dare to molest you, I would make no more of whipping this [Drawing his Sword.] through their dirty lungs, than I would of——
[Robbers surround Adeline and Gregory.
1 Rob. Stand!
Gregory. O mercy! mercy! I'm as dead a man as ever I was in my life. [Drops his Sword, and falls.
Adeline. Heavens! when will my miseries end! Speak, friends, what would you have?
1 Rob. What you have.
Adeline. If it is our lives you seek, they are so care worn, that in resigning them, we part with that which is scarce worth the keeping.
Gregory. 'Tis very true indeed. Pray don't take them, gentlemen;—they'll do you no kind of good.
2 Rob. Peace!
1 Rob. Marry, a well favoured boy. Say, youth, whence came you, and whither bound?
Adeline. I scarce know whither; but I came far inland; sent by my father to the wars; his sword the sole inheritance his age can leave me. This man, a faithful servant of our cottage, in simple love has followed me.
1 Rob. Well, youth; be of good cheer—He, who has little, has little to lose; and a soldier's pocket is seldom much lighter for emptying. Come; you must both with us—bring them to our captain's cave.
[Exeunt First and Fourth Robber.
Gregory. Oh lud; oh lud! Dear, good, sweet faced gentlemen!
2 Rob. Peace, dolt! fear not; our captain's honourable!
Gregory. Nay, that he must be by his company—but sweet, civil, honest gentlemen! [The Robbers press them on.] Oh confound these underground apartments! We shall never get out of them alive. Lord! lord! how hard it is upon a man to be forced to walk to his own burying!
[Exeunt Adeline and Gregory, hurried off by the Robbers.
SCENE III.
Another Part of the Forest.
Enter Margaret, with the Young Prince Edward.
Marg. Why, that's well done, my boy!—so—cheerly, cheerly!
See, too, the angry storm's subsiding:—what,
Thou canst not be a-weary, Ned?—I know,
Thou'rt more a man.
Prince. Sooth, now, my legs ache sadly!
My heart is light and fresh though; and it mocks
My legs for aching. I would I had your legs,
And you my heart.—Your heart, I fear me, mother,
Is heavier far than mine.
Marg. Dost think so, Ned?
Prince. Ay, and I know so too:—for I am in it.
Marg. My dear, wronged child!
Prince. Pr'ythee now, mother, do not grieve for me;—
I warrant I shall live to be a king, yet.
Prince. Then, you know
I've all its good to come.
Marg. May Heaven grant it!
For thou dost promise nobly, boy. This forest
Will screen us from the hatred of our enemies.
Here, till the rage of war has ceased around us,
I will watch o'er thee, Ned; here guard thy life;—
Thy life! the hope, the care, the joy of mine!
And when thy harrass'd limbs have gain'd their pliancy,
We will resume our task: for I must lead thee
A painful walk, across Northumberland,
As far as Berwick, boy; where we may meet,
Again, our Scottish friends. What sayest thou Ned,
Shouldst joy to see thy father there?
Prince. Ay, mother;—
And, though we know he has escaped the traitors,
Were we but sure to find him there, I could
Set out directly.
Marg. Rest a day or two:
For hadst thou strength, the danger that surrounds us
Prevents our venturing.—Come!—on a little—
We will go look some moss-grown cavern out,
And there thou shalt repose thee, sweet.—
Enter Gondibert.
Come, boy! come, take my hand——
[Gondibert approaches, with his Sword drawn.
Gondi. Advance no further.
Marg. Ha! Who art thou, that comest, with murderous look,
Here, in the dusky bosom of the wood,
To intercept our passage?
Gondi. One of those
Who, stript of all, by an oppressing world,
Now make reprisals: if my looks be dark,
They best explain my purpose.
Prince. Fly! fly! mother!
The villain else, will kill us.
Marg. Let us pass.
Thou know'st us not; else would there so much terror
Still strike thee of our person, that—no matter.
What cause hast thou to stay me?
Gondi. Biting want;—
An oath sworn to my fellows;—disappointment;—
Despair.—I came not here to parley, lady;——quickly,
Yield what you have, or go where I command.
Marg. Command! base slave! reduced to this!—Command,
From thee? thou worm!
[Making majestically past him, with the Prince.
Gondi. Nay, nay; you fly not, lady.
[Holds his Sword, over them.
Marg. Oh, Heaven! my boy! strike not, on thy allegiance!
Save him, I charge thee, fellow! Save my son;—
The son of thy anointed king.
Gondi. My king!
[Drops his Sword at their Feet.
Marg. Ay, look, and tremble, slave.
Gondi. I do indeed!—
And tho' my sword has never been unsheathed,
Since fate has link'd me to a lawless band,
But to intimidate, not harm the passenger,
I rather would have plunged its naked point
In mine own bosom, than have raised it thus.—
I do beseech your pardon:—and, if aught,
Wherein I may be capable of service,
Can make atonement, you shall find me ready,
Be it at what blind and perilous risk soever:—
For I have heard the fate of this day's battle;
And should a guide, whose dark, and haggard fortune,
Wraps him in humble seeming, be thought worthy,
In this the time's extremity, to direct
Your wand'ring steps, my zeal will prove itself
Warm, and unshaken, madam.
Marg. Thou makest amends:—
And the strong tide of evils, rushing in,
With rapid force, upon us, well might urge me,
Like sinking men who grasp at idle straws,
To accept thy service. Yet, thou may'st be false,
And lead my boy to his destruction.—Say,—
What sureties, fellow, have I of thy truth?
Gondi. Think on the awe-inspiring air that marks
A royal brow, and makes the trait'rous soul
Shrink at its own suggestion.—And, when care,
With envious weight, invades the diadem,
To aim an injury then—'twere monstrous baseness!
Oh! long, and ever, ever be there seen
A heaven-gifted charm round Majesty,
To draw confusion on the wretch, who, watching
A transient cloud, that dims its lustre, dares
Think on his sovereign with irreverence!
But, more to bind me, madam, to your confidence,
Know, I have been your soldier; and have fought
In this proud cause—some, haply, may remember me—
When fortune's sunshine smiled upon it.
Marg. Now—
For greatness ever has its summer friends,
Who, at the fall and winter of its glory,
Fly off like swallows—thou'lt betray me.
Gondi. Never.
Wrong me not in your thoughts, beseech you, madam;
For I will serve you truly;—truly guard
Your royal son.—He is but half a subject,
Who, in the zeal, and duty, for his monarch,
Feels not his breast glow for his prince's welfare.
And, in the moment when the time's rough trial
Calls, loudly, on my sworn allegiance,
And summons it to proof, if I abandon either,
May Heaven, when most I stand in need of mercy,
Abandon me!
Prince. Let us go with him, mother.
Gondi. I know each turn and foot-path of the forest:—
Can lead you thro' such blind and secret windings,
That will perplex pursuers, till they wander,
As in a labyrinth.—West of this a little,
There stand some straggling cottages, that form
A silent village; and whose humble tops,
Deep shadow'd by the dark o'erhanging wood,
Escape the notice of the traveller.
Thither, so please you, I'll conduct you, madam.
I have a friend,
Lowly but trusty, who shall tend upon you;
While I will scout the country round, to gain
Intelligence of your divided party.
Marg. [Taking up the Sword which Gondibert dropped.]
Then, take my boy!—for I will trust thee, fellow.
I must perforce;—but mark;—for still I doubt:—
If for a moment—mark me, fellow, well!
Thou givest me cause to think thy damn'd intent
Aims at my dear child's life, that very moment,
Tho' that the next should be my last, I'll plunge
Thy weapon to thy heart.
Gondi. Fear not.
Marg. Lead on.
[Exeunt:—Gondibert leading the Prince, and Margaret following with the Sword over Gondibert's Head.
ACT III.
SCENE I.
A Village, on the Skirts of the Forest.
Enter Fool and a Villager.
Vil. Tell me, good fellow, now, I pr'ythee—
Fool. But wilt thou lend an ear to my tale?
Vil. That will I; all the ears I am worth.
Fool. Then need not I tell the story:—for, if thou lend'st all thy ears, then thou'lt have none left to hear it.—Wast ever in a battle, old boy?
Vil. No, truly!
Fool. Then thou art a dead man.
Vil. What, for not being in a battle!
Fool. Yea, marry,—by the very first rapier that comes in thy way;—for no man can live by the sword but a soldier;—and of soldiers there are three degrees; and three only.
Vil. As how?
Fool. As thus:—Your hot fighter—your cool fighter—and your fighter-shy.—The last degree makes a wondrous figure, in many muster-rolls.
Vil. Of which last you make one.
Fool. In some degree.
Vil. And it was that made you run from the battle.
Fool. Right; running is your only surety. Bully Achilles, the great warrior of old, thought otherwise; and he was vulnerable only in the heel:—now, my heels always insure me from being wounded.—Dost know why Heaven makes one leg of a man stouter than the other?
Vil. No.
Fool. That he may be able to put the best leg foremost, when there's occasion.
Vil. And you had occasion enough, last night.
Fool. Truly, had I; and thus came I to your cottage; where I slept on a bare board all night.
Vil. Ah! Heaven knows my lodging is poor enough! but such as it is, you are welcome.
Fool. Nay, I quarrel not with the lodging; I only complain of the board—and now wouldst thou know my story.
Vil. I would willingly hear of the battle that was lost.
Fool. Then pr'ythee, ask of those that found it: but, come, I'll e'en tell thee how it was.——Thou hast a wife?
Vil. Yes, forsooth;—that was my old dame you saw at home.
Fool. Keep her there; for nature plainly intended her for a homely woman—Didst ever quarrel with her before marriage?
Vil. Never.
Fool. Afterwards, a little?
Vil. Um!—Why, to say the truth, my poor dame has a fine flourish with a cudgel; but people will needs fall out, now and then, when once they come together.
Fool. That's the very way we lost the battle:—for had the two parties never met, depend on't, one had never cudgel'd the other.
Vil. Mass! thou art a rare fellow in the field!
Fool. Very rare;—for I never come there but when I can't help it.
SONG.—FOOL.
To arms, to arms, when Captains cry,
With a heigho! the trumpets blow—
To legs, to legs, brave boys, say I!
Heigho;
I needs must go.
Arrows swift begin to fly,
With a heigho! Twang goes the bow—
And soldiers tumble down and die:—
Heigho!
I'll not do so.
Whizzing by come balls of lead;
With a heigho! thump they go.—
Tall men grow shorter by the head;
Heigho!
I'd rather grow.
In time of trouble I'm away;
With a heigho!—ill winds blow;
But always ready at pay day;
Heigho!
Great folks do so.
Enter another Villager.
1 Vil. Now, goodman Hobs, whence come you?
2 Vil. There is a great lord come in, from the routed party, who has taken shelter in our village, since break of day. One of your great friends, good sir. [To the Fool.
Fool. Didst see him! how look'd he?
2 Vil. I tended him, some quarter of an hour:—troth, he seem'd wondrous weary.
Fool. Of thy company.—Now could I be weary too, and find in my heart to be dull:—but here come females; and, were a man's head emptier than a spendthrift's purse, they will ever bring something out on't. Hence comes it, that your dull husband's head is improved by your lively wife:—if she can bring out nothing else, why she brings out horns.
Enter Villagers, Male and Female.
Now, good folk, whither go you?
3 Vil. Truly, sir, this is our season for making of hay; and here am I, sir, with the rest of our village, going about it.
Fool. Now might I, were it not for disgracing the army, turn mower among these clowns;—and why not? Soldiers are but cutters down of flesh, and flesh is grass, all the world over. I'll e'en out, this morning, and do execution in the field.—Come, lads and maidens! One roundelay, and we'll to't!