_Ralph._ It should seem so certainly, for her breath is yet inflamed: besides, there is a main fault in the touch-hole, it runs and stinketh; and I tell you moreover, and believe it. Ten such touch-holes would breed the Pox in the Army. Get you a Feather, neighbor, get you a Feather, sweet Oil, and Paper, and your Peece may do well enough yet. Where's your Powder? _Green._ Here. _Ralph._ What in a Paper? As I am a Soldier and a Gentleman, it craves a Martial Court: you ought to die for't. Where's your horn? answer me to that. _Green._ An't like you Sir, I was oblivious. _Ralph._ It likes me not it should be so; 'tis a shame for you, and a scandal to all our Neighbors, being a man of worth and estimation, to leave your horn behind you: I am afraid 'twill breed example. But let me tell you no more on't; stand, till I view you all. What's become o'th' nose of your flaske? _1 Sold._ Indeed law Captain, 'twas blown away with powder. _Ralph._ Put on a new one at the Cities Charge. Where's the stone of this Peece? _2 Sold._ The Drummer took it out to light Tobacco. _Ralph._ 'Tis a fault my friend, put it in again: you want a Nose, and you a Stone; Serjeant, take a note on't, for I mean to stop it in the pay. Remove and march, soft and fair Gentlemen; soft and fair: double and files, as you were, faces about. Now you with the sodden face, keep in there: look to your Match sirrah, it will be in your fellows flask anon. So make a Crescent now, advance your Pikes, stand and give ear, Gentlemen, Countrey-men, Friends, and my fellow-Soldiers, I have brought you this day from the Shop[s] of Security, and the Counters of Content, to measure out in these furious fields, Honor by the ell, and Prowess by the pound: Let it not, O let it not, I say, be told hereafter, the noble issue of this City fainted: but bear your selves in this fair action, like men, valiant men, and free men: Fear not the face of the enemy: nor the noise of the Guns: for believe me brethren, the rude rumbling of a Brewers Carr is [farre] more terrible, of which you have a daily experience: Neither let the stink of Powder offend you, since a more valiant stink is nightly with you. To a resolved mind, his home is every where: I speak not this to take away the hope of your return; for you shall see (I do not doubt it) and that very shortly, your loving wives again, and your sweet children, whose care doth bear you company in baskets. Remember then whose cause you have in hand, and like a sort of true-born Scavengers, scour me this famous Realm of enemies. I have no more to say but this: Stand to your tacklings lads, and shew to the world, you can as well brandish a sword, as shake an Apron. Saint _George_, and on my hearts. _Omnes._ Saint _George_, Saint _George_. [_Exeunt._