Lord. The troops are enter’d; please you follow them?
Vor. I love not to be shut in walls of flint:
My soul likes better this vast field of air.
Let them come on.
Lord. Consider, my dear lord; think of your safety.
Vor. Must we not die? then, wherefore in a door,
And rot with famine, and with pale-fac’d hunger?
No; ’twere better nobly fall, full-stomach’d,
Than linger out a six weeks’ tedious siege.
Do as ye list, here firmly will I stand.