Drum. No, to be sure; else how should we be able to return them?
Fifer. Ay, there stands the case; we never can return them. Others can have a blow, and give a blow; but as for me, and yourself, and Kit Crackcheeks, the trumpeter; 'sbud, they may thump us from morning to night, and all the revenge we have, is—Toot-a-too, rub-a-dub, and tantararara.
Drum. O fie! learn to know our consequence better, brother, I beseech you. My word for it, we are the heros that do all the execution. Who but we keep up the vigour of an engagement, and the courage of the soldiers? Fear, brother, is, for all the world, like your bite of a tarantula; there's no conquering its effects without music. We are of as much consequence to an army, as wind to a windmill: the wings can't be put in motion without us.
Fifer. Marry, that's true: and if two armies ever meet without coming to blows, nothing but our absence can be the occasion of it. The only way to restore harmony is, to take away our music.
Enter a Corporal and Soldiers.
Soldier. Come along, my boys; now for the news!
Corp. Silence!
Soldiers. Ay, ay—Silence.
Corp. Hold your peace, there, and listen to what I'm going to inform you—Hem!—Who am I?
All Soldiers. Our corporal! Alick Puff;—our corporal.