_Du._ As little as may be: Farewel, you know your limit. [_Ex. Duke_, &c.
_Ar._ I do, and will observe it suddenly, My Grave; I, that's my limit; 'tis no new thing, Nor that can make me start, or tremble at it, To buckle with that old grim Souldier now: I have seen him in his sowrest shapes, and dreadfull'st; I, and I thank my honesty, have stood him: That audit's cast; farewel my honest Souldiers, Give me your hands; farewel, farewel good _Ancient_, A stout man, and a true, thou art come in sorrow. Blessings upon your Swords, may they ne'r fail ye; You do but change a man; your fortune's constant; That by your ancient Valours is ty'd fast still; Be valiant still, and good: and when ye fight next, When flame and fury make but one face of horrour, When the great rest of all your honour's up, When you would think a Spell to shake the enemy, Remember me, my Prayers shall be with ye: So once again farewel.
_Ar._ No, no, it must not be; I have now left me A single Fortune to my self, no more, Which needs no train, nor complement; good Captain, You are an honest and a sober Gentleman, And one I think has lov'd me.
_Ar_. Look to my Boy, he's grown too headstrong for me. And if they think him fit to carry Arms still, His life is theirs; I have a house i'th' Country, And when your better hours will give you liberty, See me: you shall be welcome. Fortune to ye. [_Exit._
_Anc._ I'll cry no more, that will do him no good, And 'twill but make me dry, and I have no money: I'll fight no more, and that will do them harm; And if I can do that, I care not for money: I could have curst reasonable well, and I have had the luck too To have 'em hit sometimes. Whosoever thou art, That like a Devil didst possess the Duke With these malicious thoughts; mark what I say to thee, A Plague upon thee, that's but the Preamble.
_Anc._ They'll cure one another; I must have none but kills, and those kill stinking: Or look ye, let the single Pox possess them, Or Pox upon Pox.
_Anc._ 'Tis worse i'th' Legs, I would not wish it else: And may those grow to scabs as big as Mole-hills, And twice a day, the Devil with a Curry-Comb Scratch 'em, and scrub 'em: I warrant him he has 'em.
_Anc._ That's a pleasure, The Beggar's Lechery; sometimes the Souldiers: May he be ever lazie, stink where he stands, And Maggots breed in's Brains.