Y. Book. I—madam—I—all that I know of the matter is, that Louis the Fourteenth mortally hates me. They talk of French gold—what heaps have I refused! Yet to be generous even to an enemy, I must allow that Prince has reason for his rancour to me. There has not been a skirmish, siege, or battle since I bore arms, I made not one in; no, nor the least advantage got of the enemy, but I had my share, though perhaps not all my share of the glory. You've seen my name, though you don't know it, often in the Gazette.
Pen. I never read news.
Enter Latine.
Lat. What tale's he telling now, tro'?
Y. Book. You've never heard, I suppose, of such names as Ruremonde, Kaiserswerth, and Liege? nor read of an English gentleman left dead by his precipitancy upon a parapet at Venloo? I was thought so indeed, when the first account came away. Every man has his failings; rashness is my fault.
Lat. Don't you remember a certain place called Oxford among your towns, sir?
Y. Book. Pshaw, away—Oh! oh!—I beg your pardon, ladies, this fellow knows I was shot in my left arm, and cannot bear the least touch, yet will still be rushing on me.
Lat. He has a lie, I think, in every joint. [Aside.
Pen. Do you bear any commission, sir?
Y. Book. There's an intimate of mine, a general officer, who has often said, Tom, if thou would'st but stick to any one application, thou might'st be anything. 'Tis my misfortune, madam, to have a mind too extensive. I began last summer's campaign with the renowned Prince Eugene, but was forced to fly into Holland for a duel with that rough Captain of the Hussars, Paul Diack. They talk of a regiment for me, but those things—besides, it will oblige me to attend it, and then I can't follow honour where'er she's busiest, but must be confined to one nation; when indeed 'tis rather my way of serving with such of our allies as most want me.