Act 3 — 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.

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!

SONG AND CHORUS OF VILLAGERS.

[Exeunt.