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!