Scale. What then! is that your respect to the bench?
Syl. Sir, I don't care a farthing for you, nor your bench neither.
Scrup. Lookye, gentlemen, that's enough; he's a very impudent fellow, and fit for a soldier.
Scale. A notorious rogue, I say, and very fit for a soldier.
Const. A whoremaster, I say, and therefore fit to go.
Bal. What think you, captain?
Plume. I think he's a very pretty fellow, and therefore fit to serve.
Syl. Me for a soldier! send your own lazy lubberly sons at home; fellows that hazard their necks every day, in the pursuit of a fox, yet dare not peep abroad to look an enemy in the face.
Const. May it please your worships, I have a woman at the door to swear a rape against this rogue.
Syl. Is it your wife, or daughter, booby?