_Crac_. Creditt me, my Captaine carries fortitude enough for a whole legion; twas his advice tooke in[77] the _Busse_[?], and at _Mastricht_ his courage did conclude _Papenhams_ overthrow.[78] _Suc_. Pish, you to farr exemply[fy]. I have bin at some few skermishes, kild halfe a score or soe; but what of yt? men are but men. _Tim_. What wines that, fellow _Grimes_? _Grimes_. Sack by this light, the Emperor of liquors! Captaine, here tis well keepe of push of pike yet peirce like shott of Cannon: a Cup of this upon an onslaught, Captain? _Suc_. Is beveredge for a Generall: I doe use to drinke it when I am engagd against a squadron or a whole company. _Grimes_. He meanes of drunkards. [_Lovell grunts_. _Suc_. Ha! Cinielaro[?] an ambuscado! see, whos that lyes there pardue[79]? fort of Mars! my wroth shall eate him up. _Grimes_. Soe, soe, now softely letts to him: ha, alreadie[80] dead drunke, as I am vertuous. Assist me gent[lemen]; _Timothy_, hast thou thy Salvatorie about thee. _Tim_. Yes, heere, here.[81] _Grimes_. Quick, quick; make some plasters and clapp em on his face: here, bind this napkin about his hand; who has a garter, lets see, to bind it up? _Suc_. Some blood, my sonn of _Mercury_, were neceseary for consummation of the jest. _Crac_. And here, _Grimes_, ty this cloath about his head: oh, for some blood! _Grimes_. Here, I have prickt my finger. _Tim_. Let you and I, Mr. _Crackby_, goe to buffitts for a bloody nose. _Crac_. No, no, you shall pardon me for that, _Tim_[82]; no, no; no boyes play. _Suc_. So, so; now set him in the chaires. Hart of valour! he looks like a Mapp oth world. Death, what are these?[83] _Enter Musike_. _Grimes_. The Town Waites whome I appointed to come and visitt us. _Suc_. 'Twas well donn: have you ere a good song? _Tim_. Yes, they have many. _Suc_. But are they bawdy? come, sir, I see by your simpring it is you that sings, but do not squeake like a _French_ Organ-pipe nor make faces as if you were to sing a Dirge. Your fellowes may goe behind the arras: I love to see Musitions in their postures imitate those ayrey soules that grace our Cittie Theaters, though in their noats they come as short of them as _Pan_ did of _Apollo_. [_Musike_. _Grimes_. Well, sir, this is indifferent Musicke, trust my judgment. Sing, boy. [_A song_. _Crac_. Now on my life this boy does sing as like the boy[84] at the _Whitefryers_ as ever I heard: how say you Captain? _Suc_. I, and the Musicks like theires: come, Sirra, whoes your Poett? _Crac_. Some mad wag, I warrant him: is this a new song? _Mus_. Tis the first edition, sir: none else but we had ever coppie of it. _Suc_. But you wilbe intreated to let a gent have it? _Mus_. By no meanes; the author has sworne to the contrary, least it should grow so wonderous old and turne a Ballad.