Fool. Then thou art a dead man.
Vil. What, for not being in a battle!
Fool. Yea, marry,—by the very first rapier that comes in thy way;—for no man can live by the sword but a soldier;—and of soldiers there are three degrees; and three only.
Vil. As how?
Fool. As thus:—Your hot fighter—your cool fighter—and your fighter-shy.—The last degree makes a wondrous figure, in many muster-rolls.
Vil. Of which last you make one.
Fool. In some degree.
Vil. And it was that made you run from the battle.
Fool. Right; running is your only surety. Bully Achilles, the great warrior of old, thought otherwise; and he was vulnerable only in the heel:—now, my heels always insure me from being wounded.—Dost know why Heaven makes one leg of a man stouter than the other?
Vil. No.