So young too—and no soldier—
Fife. A poor lad,
Who choosing play at hide and seek with death,
Just hid where death just came to look for him;
For there’s no place, I think, can keep him out,
Once he’s his eye upon you. All grows dark—
You glitter finely too—Well—we are dreaming—
But when the bullet’s off—Heaven save the mark!
So tell my mister—mastress— (Dies.)
King. Oh God! How this poor creature’s ignorance