San. Captain, I think I did my part.
Capt. Base is the wight that thinks:[275]
Let Condes small in spirit drink harsh sherry,
Then quarrel with promoting knights, and fine for't:
Thou art in mettle mighty, tough as steel,
As Bilboa or Toledo steel. Fight on,
Let acres sink, and bank of money melt;
Forsake thy lady's lap, and sleep with us
Upon the bed of honour, the chill earth.
'Tis that will make thee held a potent peer,
'Mong men o' th' pike, of buff, and bandolier.
San. Thou speak'st brave language, captain.
Capt. I'll maintain
'Tis Arragonian, Conde.
Brow. Captain Cedar,
Though in thy language lofty, give a shrub
Leave to salute thee. Sure, we two are near
In blood and great attempt. Don Hercules
Was, as I read in Chaldean chronicle,
Our common ancestor; Don Hercules,
Who rifled nymph on top of Apennine.
Capt. Small imp, avaunt!
Brow. Stout sturdy oak, that grows
So high in field of Mars, O, let no tempest
Shake thee from hence! And now I have with labour
Attain'd thy language, I'll thy truchman[276] be.
Interpret for thee to those smaller souls,
Who wonder when they understand not: souls
Whom courtiers' gaudy outside captivates
And plume of coronel.
Capt. I must expire,
Not talk to fish. Seest thou that man of match?
Though small in stature, mighty he's in soul,
And rich in gifts of mind, though poor in robes:
Reward, like Philip's heir, his daring arm,
Which fetch'd thee off from danger. Once again,
Most doughty Don, adieu.
Brow. Great Don Saltpetre,
I am the servant of thy fam'd caliver.
San. These are strong lines. Now, friend, art thou o' th' garrison?