Anc. Foul food, that lies all day undigested
Upon the queasy stomach of some tavern,
And are spew'd out at midnight.
Tim. Corporal Cods-head's health, sir.
Anc. In thy face, fool. [Tim retires.
Alex. This is cruel, Ancient.
Anc. You are but
The worms of worth, the sons of shame and baseness,
That in a tavern dare outsit the sun,
And, rather than a whore shall part unpledg'd,
You'll pawn your souls for a superfluous cup,
Though ye cast it into the reckoning.
The true soldier, who is all o'er, a history of man,
Noble and valiant; wisdom is the mould
In which he casts his actions. Such a discreet temperance
Doth daily deck his doings, that by his modesty
He's guess'd the son of merit, and by his mildness
Is believed valiant. Go, and build no more
These airy castles of hatched fame, which fools
Only admire and fear you for: the wise man
Derides and jeers you as puffs. [Be] really of[59]
Virtue and valour, those fair twins,
That are born, breathe, and die together: then
You'll no more be called butterflies, but men:
Think on't, and pay your reckoning. [Exit.
Capt. Shall we suffer this, Saunder?
Alex. I must go after him.
Sue. Kill him, an' there be no more men in Christendom.
Alex. I know my sister loves him, and he swears he loves her; and, by this hand, it shall go hard if he have her not, smock and all. Brave, excellent man! With what a strength of zeal we admire that goodness in another which we cannot call our own! [Exit.
Lieut. He's a dead man, I warrant him.