Fab. Prithee no more, we shall live well enough,
There's ways enough besides the wars to men
That are not logs, and lye still for the hands
Of others to remove 'em.
Jac. You may thrive, Sir,
Thou art young and handsom yet, and well enough
To please a Widow; thou canst sing, and tell
These foolish love-tales, and indite a little,
And if need be, compile a pretty matter,
And dedicate it to the honourable,
Which may awaken his compassion,
To make ye Clark o'th' Kitchen, and at length,
Come to be married to my Ladies Woman,
After she's crackt i'th' Ring.
Fab. 'Tis very well, Sir.
Jac. But what dost thou think shall become of me,
With all my imperfections? let me dye,
If I think I shall ever reach above
A forlorn Tapster, or some frothy fellow,
That stinks of stale Beer.
Fab. Captain Jacomo,
Why should you think so hardly of your vertues?
Jac. What vertues? by this light, I have no vertue,
But down-right buffetting, what can my face,
That is no better than a ragged Map now
Of where I have march'd and travell'd, profit me?
Unless it be for Ladies to abuse, and say
'Twas spoil'd for want of a Bongrace when I was young,
And now 'twill make a true prognostication
Of what man must be? Tell me of a fellow
That can mend Noses, and complain,
So tall a Souldier should want teeth to his Stomach;
And how it was great pity, that it was,
That he that made my Body was so busied
He could not stay to make my Legs too; but was driven
To clap a pair of Cat-sticks to my Knees, for which
I am indebted to two School-Boys; this
Must follow necessary.
Fab. There's no such matter.
Jac. Then for my Morals, and those hidden pieces,
That Art bestows upon me, they are such,
That when they come to light, I am sure will shame me,
For I can neither write, nor read, nor speak
That any man shall hope to profit by me;
And for my Languages, they are so many,
That put them all together, they will scarce
Serve to beg single Beer in; the plain truth is,
I love a Souldier, and can lead him on,
And if he fight well, I dare make him drunk;
This is my vertue, and if this will do,
I'll scramble yet amongst 'em.
Fab. 'Tis your way
To be thus pleasant still, but fear not, man,
For though the Wars fail, we shall screw our selves
Into some course of life yet.
Jac. Good Fabricio,
Have a quick eye upon me, for I fear
This Peace will make me something that I love not;
For by my troth, though I am plain and dudgion,
I would not be an Ass; and to sell parcels,
I can as soon be hang'd: prithee bestow me,
And speak some little good, though I deserve not.