Ger. Prythee, friend, can these Dutch Borachios[48] fight?
Ern. They can do even as well, for they can pay
Those that can fight.
Sil. But where, I pray, sir, do they get their money?
Ern. O sir, they have a thriving mystery;
They cheat their neighbouring princes of their trade,
And then they buy their subjects for their soldiers.
Sil. Methinks our armies should beat these butter-boxes.
Out of the world.
Ern. Trust me, brother, they'll sooner beat our armies
Out of their country: why, ready money, friend,
Will do much more in camps, as well as courts,
Than a ready wit, I dare assure you.
Ger. Methinks, camerade, our king should have more money
Than these Dutch swabbers; he's master o' th' Indies,
Where money grows.
Ern. But they have herrings which, I assure you,
Are worth our master's mines.
Ger. Herrings! why, what a devil, do they grow
In their country?
Ern. No, faith, they fish 'em on the English coast,
And fetch their salt from France; then they pickle 'em,
And sell 'em all o'er the world.