Enter Father.
Fab. Come, we'll consider more; stay, this
Should be another wind-fall of the Wars.
Jac. He looks indeed like an old tatter'd Colours,
That every wind would borrow from the Staff:
These are the hopes we have for all our hurts;
They have not cast his tongue too.
Fath. They that say
Hope never leaves a wretched man that seeks her,
I think are either patient fools, or liers,
I am sure I find it so, for I am master'd,
With such a misery and grief together
That that stay'd Anchor, men lay hold upon
In all their needs, is to me Lead that bows,
Or breaks with every strong sea of my sorrows.
I could now question Heaven (were it well
To look into their Justice) why those faults,
Those heavy sins others provoke 'em with
Should be rewarded on the head of us,
That hold the least alliance to their vices;
But this would be too curious; for I see
Our sufferings, not disputing, is the end,
Reveal'd to us of all these miseries.
Jac. Twenty such holy Hermits in a Camp
Would make 'em all Carthusians, I'll be hang'd
If he know what a Whore is, or a health,
Or have a nature liable to learn,
Or so much honest nurture to be drunk.
I do not think he has the spleen to swear
A greater Oath than Semsters utter Socks with,
S'pur him a question.
Fath. They are strangers both
To me, as I to them I hope; I would not have
Me and my shame together known by any,
I'll rather lie my self unto another.
Fab. I need not ask you, Sir, your Country,
I hear you speak this tongue, 'pray what more are you?
Or have you been? if it be not offensive
To urge ye so far, misery in your years
Gives every thing a tongue to question it.
Fath. Sir, though I could be pleas'd to make my ills
Only mine own, for grieving other men,
Yet to so fair and courteous a demander
That promises compassion, at worst pity,
I will relate a little of my story.
I am a Gentleman, however thus
Poor and unhappy; which believe me, Sir,
Was not born with me; for I well have try'd
Both the extreams of Fortune, and have found
Both dangerous; my younger years provok'd me,
Feeling in what an ease I slept at home,
Which to all stirring spirits is a sickness,
To see far Countrys, and observe their Customs:
I did so, and I travell'd till that course
Stor'd me with language, and some few slight manners,
Scarce worth my money; when an itch possess'd me
Of making Arms my active end of travel.
Fab. But did you so?
Fath. I did, and twenty Winters
I wore the Christian Cause upon my Sword
Against his Enemies, at Buda Siege
Full many a cold Night have I lodg'd in armour,
When all was frozen in me but mine Honour;
And many a day, when both the Sun and Cannon
Strove who should most destroy us; have I stood
Mail'd up in Steel, when my tough sinew shrunk,
And this parch'd Body ready to consume
As soon to ashes, as the Pike I bore;
Want has been to me as another Nature,
Which makes me with this patience still profess it;
And if a Souldier may without vain glory
Tell what h'as done, believe me, Gentlemen,
I could turn over annals of my dangers;
With this poor weakness have I man'd a breach,
And made it firm with so much bloud, that all
I had to bring me off alive was anger;
Thrice was I made a Slave, and thrice redeem'd
At price of all I had; The miseries
Of which times, if I had a heart to tell,
Would make ye weep like Children; but [I]'ll spare ye.