Cres. None of ours. It must be some of your soldiers, Don Lope.
Lope. Ah, Crespo, the troubles and dangers of war must have a little to sweeten them betimes. The uniform sits very tight, and must be let out every now and then.
Juan. Yet ’tis a fine life, sir.
Lope. Do you think you would like to follow it?
Juan. If I might at your Excellency’s side.
Song (within).
Ah for the red spring rose,
Down in the garden growing,
Fading as fast as it blows,
Who shall arrest its going?