Trim. I tell you, if you behave well to-night, you shall have a fortnight's pay each man as a reward; but there's none of you industrious. There's a thousand things you might do to help out about this town, as to cry, puff, puff pies—have you any knives or scissors to grind? or, late in an evening, whip from Grub Street, strange and bloody news from Flanders—votes from the House of Commons—buns, rare buns—old silver lace, cloaks, suits, or coats—old shoes, boots, or hats—But here, here, here's my lord a-coming; here's the captain. Fall back into the rank there; move up in the centre.
Enter Lord Hardy and Campley.
Ld. H. Let me see whether my ragged friends are ready and about me.
Kate. Ensign Campley, Ensign Campley, I am overjoyed to see your honour; ha! the world's surely altered, ha!
Cam. 'Tis so, faith! Kate, why thou art true to the cause, with the Company still, honest amazon.
Kate. Dear soul, not a bit of pride in him; but won't your honour help in my business with my lord? Speak for me, noble ensign, do.
Cam. Speak to him yourself; I'll second you.
Kate. Noble captain, my lord! I suppose Mr. Trim has told your honour about my petition. I have been a great sufferer in the service. 'Tis hard for a poor woman to lose nine husbands in a war, and no notice taken; nay, three of 'em, alas, in the same campaign. Here the woman stands that says it. I never stripped a man 'till I first tried if he could stand on his legs, and, if not, I think 'twas fair plunder, except our adjutant, and he was a puppy, that made my eighth husband run the gauntlet for not turning his toes out.
Ld. H. Well, we'll consider thee, Kate, but fall back into the rear. A roll of what? Gentlemen soldiers?