Bal. Who was witness?
Bul. That was I—I danc'd, threw the stocking, and spoke jokes by their bedside, I'm sure.
Bal. Who was the minister?
Bul. Minister! we are soldiers, and want no minister—they were married by the articles of war.
Bal. Hold thy prating, fool——Your appearance, sir, promises some understanding; pray, what does this fellow mean?
Syl. He means marriage, I think—but that, you know, is so odd a thing, that hardly any two people under the sun agree in the ceremony; but among soldiers 'tis most sacred—our sword, you know, is our honour, that we lay down—the Hero jumps over it first, and the Amazon after—Leap, rogue; follow, whore—the drum beats a ruff, and so to bed: that's all: the ceremony is concise.
Bul. And the prettiest ceremony, so full of pastime and prodigality——
Bal. What! are you a soldier?
Bul. Ay, that I am—Will your worship lend me your cane, and I'll show you how I can exercise?
Bal. Take it. [Strikes him over the Head.]—Your name, pray, sir? [To Sylvia.