If I have reap'd a single grain of favour,
From your fair self, and noble father here,
I have obtain'd the harvest of my hope.
De Vienne. Heyday! here's bow, and jut, and cringe, and scrape!—
Count! I have served in battle; witness for me
Some curious scars, the soldier's coxcombry,
In which he struts, fantastically carved
Upon the tough old doublet nature gave him.
Let us, then, speak like brothers of the field;
Roundly and blunt. Have I your leave, my lord?