Beaumont & Fletchers Works (2 of 10) – the Humourous Lieutenant. Beaumont Francis

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      Leo. Ye are too tender;

      Fortune 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?

      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.

      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.

      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 'em off,

      They are hot, and weary.

      Dem. I'le doe any thing.

      Leo. Lieutenant, send one presently away

      To th' King, and let him know our state: and hark ye,

      Be sure the messenger advise his Majestie

      To comfort up the Prince: he's full of sadness.

      Leu. Her maiden-head will yield me; let me see now;

      She is not fifteen they say: for her complexion—

      Cloe, Cloe, Cloe, here, I have her,

      Cloe, the Daughter of a Country Gentleman;

      Her age upon fifteen: now her complexion,

      A lovely brown; here 'tis; eyes black and rolling,

      The body neatly built: she strikes a Lute well,

      Sings most inticingly, these helps consider'd,

      Her maiden-head will amount to some three hundred,

      Or three hundred and fifty Crowns, 'twill bear it handsomly.

      Her Father's poor, some little share deducted,

      To buy him a hunting Nag; I, 'twill be pretty.

      Who takes care of the Merchants Wife?