tune has hours of loss, and hours of honour,
And the most valiant feel them both: take comfort,
The next is ours, I have a soul descries it:
The angry bull never goes back for breath
But when he means to arm his fury double.
Let this day set, but not the memorie,
And we shall find a time: How now Lieutenant?

_Enter_ Lieutenant.

_Lieu_. I know not: I am mall'd: we are bravely beaten,
All our young gallants lost.

_Leo_. Thou art hurt.

_Lieu_. I am pepper'd,
I was i'th' midst of all: and bang'd of all hands:
They made an anvile of my head, it rings yet;
Never so thresh'd: do you call this fame? I have fam'd it;
I have got immortal fame, but I'le no more on't;
I'le no such scratching Saint to serve hereafter;
O' my conscience I was kill'd above twenty times,
And yet I know not what a Devil's in't,
I crawled away, and lived again still; I am hurt plaguily,
But now I have nothing near so much pain Colonel,
They have sliced me for that maladie.

_Dem_. All the young men lost?

_Lie_. I am glad you are here: but they are all i'th' pound sir,
They'l never ride o're other mens corn again, I take it,
Such frisking, and such flaunting with their feathers,
And such careering with their Mistres favours;
And here must he be pricking out for honour,
And there got he a knock, and down goes pilgarlick,
Commends his soul to his she-saint, and _Exit_.
Another spurs in there, cryes make room villains,
I am a Lord, scarce spoken, but with reverence
A Rascal takes him o're the face, and fells him;
There lyes the Lord, the Lord be with him.

_Leo_. Now Sir,
Do you find this truth?

_Dem_. I would not.

_Lieu_. Pox upon it,
They have such tender bodies too; such Culisses,
That one good handsom blow breaks 'em a pieces.

_Leo_. How stands the Enemy?

_Lieu_. Even cool enough too:
For to say truth he has been shrewdly heated,
The Gentleman no doubt will fall to his jewlips.

_Leo_. He marches not i'th' tail on's.

_Lieu_. No, plague take him,
He'l kiss our tails as soon; he looks upon us,
As if he would say, if ye will turn again, friends,
We will belabor you a little better,
And beat a little more care into your coxcombs.
Now shall we have damnable Ballads out against us,
Most wicked madrigals: and ten to one, Colonel,
Sung to such lowsie, lamentable tunes.

_Leo_. Thou art merry,
How e're the game goes: good Sir be not troubled,
A better day will draw this back again.
Pray go, and cheer those left, and lead