Phil. A pox upon such slaves!
1st Sol. Hang him, a peasant! my lord, you see I am but a scrag; my lord, my legs are not of the biggest, nor the least, nor the best that e'er were stood upon—nor the worst; but they are of God's making; and for your sake, if ever we put our enemies to flight again, by Gad's-lid, if I run not after them like a tiger, hough[68] me.
Phil. But wilt thou stand to't ere they fly, ha, wilt thou?
1st Sol. Will I, quoth-a! by this hand and the honour of a soldier.
Phil. And by a soldier's honour I will load thee
With Spanish pistolets: to have this head,
Thy face, and all thy body stuck with scars,
Why 'tis a sight more glorious than to see
A lady hung with diamonds. If thou lose
A hand, I'll send this after; if an arm,
I'll lend thee one of mine; come then, let's fight.
A mangled, lame, true soldier is a gem
Worth Cæsar's empire, though fools spurn at them.
1st Sol. Yet, my lord, I have seen lame soldiers not worth the crutches they leant upon; hands and arms, quoth-he! Zounds! not I. I'll double my files, or stand sentry, or so; but I'll be hanged and quartered, before I'll have my members cut off.
2d Sol. And I too: hold thee there.
Phil. Hold you both there; away, you rogues, you dirt!
[Beats them both in.