3 Sold. If this hold, we are starv'd.
Jud. For my part, friends,
Which is but twenty Beans a day, a hard world
For Officers, and men of action;
And those so clipt by master Mouse, and rotten:
For understand 'em French Beans, where the fruits
Are ripen'd like the people in old tubs.
For mine own part, I say, I am starv'd already.
Not worth another Bean, consum'd to nothing,
Nothing but flesh and bones left, miserable:
Now if this mustie provender can prick me
To honourable matters of atchievment, Gentlemen,
Why there's the point.
4 Sold. I'll fight no more.
Petill. You'll hang then,
A sovereign help for hunger. Ye eating Rascals,
Whose gods are Beef and Brewis, whose brave angers
Do execution upon these, and Chibbals:
Ye dogs heads i'th' porridge-pot; you fight no more?
Does Rome depend upon your resolution
For eating mouldy Pie-crust?
3 Sold. Would we had it.
Jud. I may do service, Captain.
Petill. In a fish-market.
You, Corporal Curry-Comb, what will your fighting
Profit the Common-wealth? do you hope to triumph,
Or dare your vamping valour, goodman Cobler,
Clap a new [soal] to th' Kingdom? s'death, ye dog-whelps
You, fight, or not fight.
Jud. Captain.
Petill. Out, ye flesh-flies,
Nothing but noise and nastiness.
Jud. Give us meat,
Whereby we may do.