POMP.
You Spanish pheasants crow upon your perch:
But when we fire your coats about your ears,
And take your ships before your walled towns,
We make a dunghill of your rotten bones,
And cram our chickens with your grains of gold.
SHEALTY.
You will not yield?
PLEASURE.
Yes, the last moneth.
SHEALTY.
Farewell.
[Retire Heralds with the Pages to their places.
S. PRIDE.
Vade.
POLICY.
Herald, how now?
FEALTY.
Yon proud Castilians
Look for your service.
POMP.
So do we for theirs.
But, Fealty, canst thou declare to me
The cause why all their pages follow them,
When ours in show do ever go before?
FEALTY.
In war they follow, and the Spaniard is
Warring in mind.