PAROLLES.
Good, very good, it is so then. Good, very good; let it be conceal’d awhile.
BERTRAM.
Undone, and forfeited to cares for ever!
PAROLLES.
What’s the matter, sweetheart?
BERTRAM.
Although before the solemn priest I have sworn,
I will not bed her.
PAROLLES.
What, what, sweetheart?
BERTRAM.
O my Parolles, they have married me!
I’ll to the Tuscan wars, and never bed her.
PAROLLES.
France is a dog-hole, and it no more merits
The tread of a man’s foot: to the wars!
BERTRAM.
There’s letters from my mother; what th’ import is
I know not yet.
PAROLLES.
Ay, that would be known. To th’ wars, my boy, to th’ wars!
He wears his honour in a box unseen
That hugs his kicky-wicky here at home,
Spending his manly marrow in her arms,
Which should sustain the bound and high curvet
Of Mars’s fiery steed. To other regions!
France is a stable; we that dwell in’t, jades,
Therefore, to th’ war!
BERTRAM.
It shall be so; I’ll send her to my house,
Acquaint my mother with my hate to her,
And wherefore I am fled; write to the king
That which I durst not speak. His present gift
Shall furnish me to those Italian fields
Where noble fellows strike. War is no strife
To the dark house and the detested wife.