Flam. I beseech you do. [Exit Zanche.
How is 't, brave soldier? Oh, that I had seen
Some of your iron days! I pray relate
Some of your service to us.
Fran. 'Tis a ridiculous thing for a man to be his own chronicle: I did never wash my mouth with mine own praise, for fear of getting a stinking breath.
Marc. You 're too stoical. The duke will expect other discourse from you.
Fran. I shall never flatter him: I have studied man too much to do that. What difference is between the duke and I? no more than between two bricks, all made of one clay: only 't may be one is placed in top of a turret, the other in the bottom of a well, by mere chance. If I were placed as high as the duke, I should stick as fast, make as fair a show, and bear out weather equally.
Flam. If this soldier had a patent to beg in churches, then he would tell them stories.
Marc. I have been a soldier too.
Fran. How have you thrived?
Marc. Faith, poorly.
Fran. That 's the misery of peace: only outsides are then respected. As ships seem very great upon the river, which show very little upon the seas, so some men i' th' court seem Colossuses in a chamber, who, if they came into the field, would appear pitiful pigmies.
Flam. Give me a fair room yet hung with arras, and some great cardinal to lug me by th' ears, as his endeared minion.