Petill. Whereby hangs your valour?
Jud. Good bits afford good blows.
Petill. A good position:
How long is't since thou eat'st last, wipe thy mouth,
And then tell truth.
Jud. I have not eat to th' purpose—
Petill. To th' purpose? what's that? half a Cow and Garlick?
Ye Rogues, my company eat Turf, and talk not;
Timber they can digest, and fight upon't;
Old matts, and mud with spoons, rare meats. Your shooes slaves?
Dare ye cry out for hunger, and those extant?
Suck your Sword-hilts, ye slaves, if ye be valiant,
Honor will make 'em march-pain: to the purpose?
A grievous penance. Dost thou see that Gentleman,
That melancholly Monsieur?
Jun. Pray ye, Petillius.
Pet. He has not eat these three weeks.
2 Sold. 'Has drunk the more then.
3 Sold. And that's all one.
Petill. Nor drunk nor slept these two months.