Pop, pop, pop, row de dow, &c. &c.
[Exit.
SCENE II.
Henry the Sixth's Camp, at Hexham.
Enter a Drummer and a Fifer.
Drum. Morrow to you, Master Tooting—a merry day-breaking to your worship.
Fifer. A sad head-breaking, I fancy. Plaguy troublesome times, brother! Buffetted, by the opposite party, out of one place, and now waiting till they come to buffet us out of another. Whenever they do come, let me tell you, a man will scarce have time to get up from his straw bed, before he's laid down again by a long shot of the enemy. We shall be popp'd at like a parcel of partridges, rising from stubble.
Drum. Pshaw! plague, what signifies taking matters to heart? Luck's all. War's a chance, you know. If one day's bad, another's better. What matters an odd drubbing, or so? A soldier should never grumble.
Fifer. Why, zouns! flesh and blood, nor any thing that belongs to a camp, can't help it. Do, now, only give your drum a good beating, and mind what a damn'd noise it will make.—Not grumble, when we take so many hard knocks?