Yfaith, Lady, I'll discry you such a man,
of them there be many which you have spoke of,
That bear the name and shape of soldiers,
Yet God knows very seldom saw the war:
That haunt your taverns, and your ordinaries,
Your ale-houses sometimes, for all a-like
To uphold the brutish humour of their minds,
Being marked down, for the bondmen of despair:
Their mirth begins in wine, but ends in blood,
Their drink is clear, but their conceits are mud.
LUCY.
Yet these are great gentlemen soldiers.
ARTHUR.
No, they are wretched slaves,
Whose desperate lives doth bring them timeless graves.
LUCY.
Both for your self, and for your form of life,
If I may choose, I'll be a soldier's wife.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE IV. The same.
[Enter Sir Lancelot and Oliver.]
OLIVER.
And tyt trust to it, so then.
LANCELOT.
Assure your self,
You shall be married with all speed we may:
One day shall serve for Frances and for Lucy.
OLIVER.
Why che would vain know the time, for providing
wedding raiments.
LANCELOT.
Why, no more but this: first get your assurance made,
touching my daughter's jointer; that dispatched, we will
in two days make provision.
OLIVER.
Why, man, chil have the writings made by tomorrow.
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