Hark you, Vincenzo; here will I dismount.
Lead on Falcone to the castle. See
He lack no provender or barley-straw
To ease his battered sides. Poor war-worn horse!
When last we galloped past this church-yard gate,
He was a colt, gamesome and hot of blood,
Bearing against the bit until my arm
Ached with his humors. Mark the old jade now—
He knows we talk about him—a mere boy
Might ride him bare-back. Give my people note