Let me speak proudly:—Tell the Constable,
We are but warriors for the working-day:[24]
Our gayness and our guilt[25] are all besmirch’d
With rainy marching in the painful field,
And time hath worn us into slovenry.
But, by the mass, our hearts are in the trim;
And my poor soldiers tell me—yet ere night
They’ll be in fresher robes; or they will pluck
The gay new coats o’er the French soldiers’ heads,
And turn them out of service.