[SCENE 1.]

Enter Dicke Bowyer and soldiers, with Drum and colours.

Bow. Stand, give the word along, stand.

Lieu. Stand there!

Bow. Lieutenant.

Lieu. Captayne.

Bow. Is the watch set in the King's quarter yet.

Lieu. An houre agoe.

Bow. 'Zounds what foolish Canaanits were they to run in debt to their eyes for an houres sleepe sooner then they needed! Sergeant.

Ser. Anon, Sir.

Bow. Anon, Sir! s'hart the Rogue answers like a Drawer, but tis the tricke of most of these Sergeants, all clincum clancum. Gods dynes[118], I am an Onyon if I had not rather serve formost in the forlorne hoope of a battell or runne poynt blancke against the mouth of a double charged Cannon then come under the arrests of some their pewter pessels. Zounds, tis hotter a great deale then hell mouth and Dives burning in Sulphur: but thou art none of the genealogy of them. Where must we watch to night?

Serg. In the furthest Trenches that confront the enemies campe.

Bow. Thats the next way to have all our throats cut.

Lieu. That cannot be; you know, Captain, there's a peace toward.

Bow. A pox a peace, it keeps our Ancient whole, but s'hart our gaberdines go to wrack. But futra! tis well known since Dick Bowyer came to France he hath shewed himselfe a gentleman and a Cavaliero and sets feare at's heeles. And I could scape (a pox on it) th'other thing, I might haps return safe and sound to England. But what remedy? al flesh is grasse and some of us must needes be scorcht in this hote Countrey. Lieutenant Core, prithee lead my Band to their quarter; and the rogues do not as they should, cram thy selfe, good Core, downe their throats and choak them. Who stands Sentronell to night, Sir?

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.

Pet. Thomasin, leave this pace & take me with you[124]. My Lord loves your Lady, yet I heare she is this night betrothed to the Prince of France: I love you & shall I lose you? No: I hate prolixity; in a word, the end is Ile mary you.

Tho. Prety, as God save me! What will Captaine Bowyer say to that if he should know it?

Bow.—A good Rogue, by Jesu!

Pet. Bowyer a Captayne? a Capon, a button mould, a lame haberdine[125], a red beard Sprat, a Yellowhammer, a bow case, a very Jackdaw with his toung slit.

Bow.—Zounds, what a Philistine is this! what a dictionary of proper names hath the Rogue got together! heart, his toung crawles as fast as the cheese doth in Germany. Ile pearce you for this, you Lobster.

Pet. Bowyer? mordu! futra[126] for him! and that sowre crab do but leere at thee I shall squeeze him to Vargis[127].

Bow. And you squeeze me I may haps grow saucy with you, you whorson burnd Pudding pye, you drye Parsnip. Kisse me, Thomasin. So, dare you stand to your word now and squeeze me.

Pet. Stumps, I challenge thee for this indignity. Bowyer, I will gyrd my selfe with thy guts. I am a souldiour and a Captayne.

Bow. Captayne? s'hart, and thou hast under thy charge any other then Pigmies I am a Gogmagog. Dost thou heare, sowgelder? and I do not with sixe Cranes (wel marshald) overrunne thee and thy hundred and fifty, say Dick Bowyer's a coward.

Pet. For that word draw.

Tho. Hold, Gentlemen.

Bow. Peace, good Thomasin, silence, sweet socket [sucket?]. Peter, dost see this sword? this sword kild Sarlaboys, that was one Rogue: now it shall kill thee, that's two Rogues. Whorson puttock[128], no garbage serve you but this? have at you!

As they fight enters Pembrooke.

Pem. Who's this at enmity within our Camps? What! Bowyer and the servant to great Burbon? Both sheathe your weapons: by our martiall law This act is death.

Bow. Ile be hangd then. Dost thou heare, noble Generall? Dicke Bowyer knowes what belongs to service: we did not draw of any malice, by this element of iron & steele, but to measure which of our swords were longest.—Ile save you for once, you Sarazen, because I see youle hang scurvily: but the next time—

Pem. Good Captayne Bowyer, let our English troops Keepe a strong watch to night: my throbbing heart, Like to a Scritchowle in the midnight houre, Bodes some black scene of mischiefe imminent.

Bow. Never feare, Generall: if Julius Caesar rise up against us, e're he do my Lord any wrong, zounds Ile be cut smaller then pot-hearbs. Ile to the trenches: come, Thomasin.—Leere not, Lobster, lest I thump that russeting[129] face of yours with my sword hilt till that it looke as pyde colourd as the Rainbow. By Jesu, Ile do it, and therefore follow me not. [Exeunt.

Pem. Why should this loade of griefe lye on my heart With such a ponderous waight? I know no cause, Unlesse it be by thinking on the wrong My friend receyves in the unmatched love Which Katherine beares me: yet my fayth is sound, And like a solid Rock shall check her teares. Katharine loves me; yet, for my friends delight, Pembrooke will hate her love and flye her sight.

[Exit.