Dor. Nay, if you fall to fainting,
'Tis time for me to trudge: art such a coward,
At the meer name of hurt to change thy colour?
I have been shot that men might see clean through me,
And yet I fainted not: besides my self,
Here are an hospital of hurt men for ye.
Enter Servants, wounded in several places.
Clean. What should this wonder be?
Cal. I am amaz'd at it.
Doril. What think ye of these? they are every one hurt soundly,
Hurt to the proof, they are through, and through I assure ye;
And that's good game, they scorn your puling scratches.
Cal. Who did this Sir?
Dor. Leave crying, and I'le tell you,
And get your plaisters, and your warm stupes ready:
Have you ne're a Shepheard that can tarr us over?
'Twill prove a business else, we are so many.
Coming to see you, I was set upon,
I and my men, as we were singing frolickly,
Not dreaming of an ambush of base Rogues,
Set on i'th' forest, I have forgot the name—
Cle. 'Twixt this, and Fountaine-Bleau,
In the wild Forest?
Dor. The same, the same, in that accursed Forest,
Set on by villains, that make boot of all men,
The Peers of France are pillage there, they shot at us,
Hurt us, un-hors'd us, came to the sword, there pli'd us,
Opprest us with fresh multitudes, fresh shot still,
Rogues that would hang themselves for a fresh doublet,
And for a Scarlet Cassock kill their Fathers.
Cle. Lighted you among these?