A poor man, rarely having handled lance,
And rather old, weary, and far from sure
His Squires are not the Giant's friends. All' s one:
Let us go forth!
Lady Car. Go forth?
Straf. What matters it?
We shall die gloriously—as the book says.
Lady Car. To Scotland? not to Scotland?
Straf. Am I sick
Like your good brother, brave Northumberland?