_Jac._ Then for my Morals, and those hidden pieces, That Art bestows upon me, they are such, That when they come to light, I am sure will shame me, For I can neither write, nor read, nor speak That any man shall hope to profit by me; And for my Languages, they are so many, That put them all together, they will scarce Serve to beg single Beer in; the plain truth is, I love a Souldier, and can lead him on, And if he fight well, I dare make him drunk; This is my vertue, and if this will do, I'll scramble yet amongst 'em. _Fab._ 'Tis your way To be thus pleasant still, but fear not, man, For though the Wars fail, we shall screw our selves Into some course of life yet. _Jac._ Good _Fabricio_, Have a quick eye upon me, for I fear This Peace will make me something that I love not; For by my troth, though I am plain and dudgion, I would not be an Ass; and to sell parcels, I can as soon be hang'd: prithee bestow me, And speak some little good, though I deserve not. _Enter Father._ _Fab._ Come, we'll consider more; stay, this Should be another wind-fall of the Wars. _Jac._ He looks indeed like an old tatter'd Colours, That every wind would borrow from the Staff: These are the hopes we have for all our hurts; They have not cast his tongue too. _Fath._ They that say Hope never leaves a wretched man that seeks her, I think are either patient fools, or liers, I am sure I find it so, for I am master'd, With such a misery and grief together That that stay'd Anchor, men lay hold upon In all their needs, is to me Lead that bows, Or breaks with every strong sea of my sorrows. I could now question Heaven (were it well To look into their Justice) why those faults, Those heavy sins others provoke 'em with Should be rewarded on the head of us, That hold the least alliance to their vices; But this would be too curious; for I see Our sufferings, not disputing, is the end, Reveal'd to us of all these miseries. _Jac._ Twenty such holy _Hermits_ in a Camp Would make 'em all _Carthusians_, I'll be hang'd If he know what a Whore is, or a health, Or have a nature liable to learn, Or so much honest nurture to be drunk. I do not think he has the spleen to swear A greater Oath than Semsters utter Socks with, S'pur him a question. _Fath._ They are strangers both To me, as I to them I hope; I would not have Me and my shame together known by any, I'll rather lie my self unto another. _Fab._ I need not ask you, Sir, your Country, I hear you speak this tongue, 'pray what more are you? Or have you been? if it be not offensive To urge ye so far, misery in your years Gives every thing a tongue to question it.