Enter Two Soldiers.
First Sol. Stay! we are hungry and thirsty.—What have you to give us to eat?
Wid. My food is woe; and such my appetite
I am not to be cloyed, though e'en to surfeit
I've been supplied.
Second Sol. Her words are strange—her manner is stranger still.—
Hunger is not nice, to be sure.
First Sol. I see but little chance of satisfying hunger here.
Second Sol. Ho! there is a smell of wine!—produce it!—come! quick!
Our master is at hand.
Wid. Those arms upon their shields!
Away! no longer blast me with your sight.
First Sol. When we have got what we wish, we will.—The wine, the wine, or look, this shall find it. (draws his sword.)
Wid. Think you I care for threat of you, or yours?
Back with your sword; I fear ye not, I tell you;
And mark! a fiercer thirst ye all shall have,
Nor find one drop to cool your burning tongue.
Second Sol. Don't exasperate her; these are strange times, and—