Fool. Afterwards, a little?
Vil. Um!—Why, to say the truth, my poor dame has a fine flourish with a cudgel; but people will needs fall out, now and then, when once they come together.
Fool. That's the very way we lost the battle:—for had the two parties never met, depend on't, one had never cudgel'd the other.
Vil. Mass! thou art a rare fellow in the field!
Fool. Very rare;—for I never come there but when I can't help it.
SONG.—FOOL.
To arms, to arms, when Captains cry,
With a heigho! the trumpets blow—
To legs, to legs, brave boys, say I!