3 _Out-law._ You speak now like a Captain. And if we spare, fley us, and coin our Cassocks, Will ye look blith? _Rod._ You hear no preparation The King intends against us yet? 4 _Out-law._ Not a word, Sir, Good man, he's troubled with matter of more moment, Hummings of higher nature vex his brains, Sir, Do not we see his Garrisons? _Rod._ Who are out now? 4 _Out-law._ Good fellows, Sir, that if there be any purchase stirring Will strike it dead; _Jaques_, and _Lopez_, Lads, That know their Quarters, as they know their Knapsacks; And will not off. _Rod._ Where is the Boy ye brought me? A pretty Lad, and of a quick capacity, And bred up neatly. 1 _Out-law._ He's within at meat, Sir, The Knave is hungry, yet he seasons all He eats or drinks with many tears and sighings, The saddest appetite I ever lookt on; The Boy is young, 'tis fear, and want of company, He knows, and loves; use him not rough, and harshly, He will be quickly bold; I'll entertain him; I want a pretty Boy to wait upon me, And when I am sad or sleepy, to prate to me; Besides there's something in his face I like well. And still the more I look, more like; let him want nothing, And use him gently, all. _2 Out-law._ Here's a small Box, Sir, We took about him, which he griev'd to part with, May be some Wealth. _Rod._ Alas, some little money The poor Knave carried to defray his lodgings, I'll give it him again, and add unto it. 'Twere sin to open such a petty purchase. _Enter_ Lopez, _and_ Jaques _with_ Pedro. How now, who is this? what have you brought me, Souldiers? _Lop._ We know not well, what a strange staving fellow, Sullen enough I am sure. _Rod._ Where took ye him? _Jaq._ Upon the Skirt o' th' wood, viewing, and gaping, And sometime standing still, as if he had meant To view the best accesses to our quarters; Money he has enough; and when we threatned him, He smil'd, and yielded; but not one word utter'd. _Lop._ His habit says he's holy, if his heart Keep that proportion too, 'tis best ye free him, We keep his wallet here; I am sure 'tis heavy. _Rod._ Pilgrim, come hither, Sir, are you a Pilgrim? A piece of pretty holiness; do you shrink, Sir? A smug young Saint. What Country were you born in? Ye have a _Spanish_ face; In a dumb Province? And had your Mother too this excellent Vertue? No tongue do you say? sure she was a matchless woman; What a fine family is this man sprung from! Certain he was begotten in a Calm, When all was hush'd; the Midwife was dumb Midnight; Are ye seal'd up? or do you scorn to answer? Ye are in my hands, and I have Medicines for ye Can make ye speak: pull off his Bonnet, Souldiers; Ye have a speaking face. _Lop._ I am sure a handsome; This Pilgrim cannot want She-Saints to pray to.