_Theo._ Are these the welcomes, The Bells that ring out our rewards? pray heartily, Early and late, there may be no more Enemies: Do my good Lord, pray seriously, and sigh too, For if there be-- _Bor._ They must be met, and fought with. _Theo._ By whom? by you? they must be met and flatter'd. Why, what a Devil ail'd ye to do these things? With what assurance dare ye mock men thus? You have but single lives, and those I take it A Sword may find too: why do ye dam the Duke up? And choak that course of love, that like a River Should fill our empty veins again with comforts? But if ye use these knick knacks, This fast and loose, with faithful men and honest, You'l be the first will find it. _Enter_ Archas, _Souldiers_, Putskey, _Ancient, and others_. _Boros._ You are too untemperate. _Theo._ Better be so, and thief too, than unthankful: Pray use this old man so, and then we are paid all. The Duke thanks ye for your service, and the Court thanks ye, And wonderful desirous they are to see ye; Pray Heaven we have room enough to march for May-games, Pageants, and Bone-fires for your welcome home, Sir. Here your most noble friend the Lord _Boroskie_, A Gentleman too tender of your credit, And ever in the Dukes ear, for your good, Sir, Crazie and sickly, yet to be your servant, Has leapt into the open air to meet ye. _Bor._ The best is, your words wound not, you are welcome home, Sir; Heartily welcome home, and for your service, The noble overthrow you gave the Enemy, The Duke salutes ye too with all his thanks, Sir. _Anc._ Sure they will now regard us. _Puts._ There's a reason: But by the changing of the Colonels countenance, The rolling of his eyes like angry Billows; I fear the wind's not down yet, _Ancient_. _Anc._ Is the Duke well, Sir? _Boros._ Not much unhealthy, Only a little grudging of an Ague, Which cannot last: he has heard, which makes him fearful, And loth as yet to give your worth due welcome, The sickness hath been somewhat hot i'th' Army, Which happily may prove more doubt than danger, And more his fear than fate; yet howsoever, An honest care-- _Arch._ Ye say right, and it shall be; For though upon my life 'tis but a rumor, A meer opinion, without faith or fear in't; For Sir, I thank Heaven, we never stood more healthy, Never more high and lusty; yet to satisfie, We cannot be too curious, or too careful Of what concerns his state, we'll draw away, Sir, And lodge at further distance, and less danger. _Boros._ It will be well. _Anc._ It will be very scurvy: I smell it out, it stinks abominably, Stir it no more. _Boros._ The Duke, Sir, would have you too, For a short day or two, retire to your own house, Whither himself will come to visit ye, And give ye thanks. _Arch._ I shall attend his pleasure. _Anc._ A trick, a lousie trick: so ho, a trick Boys. _Arch._ How now, what's that?