_Swet._ Draw in, draw in: well have you fought, and worthy _Romes_ noble recompence; look to your wounds, The ground is cold and hurtful: the proud Queen Has got a Fort, and there she and her Daughters Defie us once again. To morrow morning Wee'll seek her out, and make her know, our Fortunes Stop at no stubborn walls: Come, sons of honor, True virtues heirs; thus hatch'd with _Britain_ blood, Let's march to rest, and set in gules like Suns. Beat a soft march, and each one ease his neighbours. [_Exeunt._ _Actus Quartus. Scæna Prima._ _Enter_ Petillius, Junius, Decius, Demetrius _singing_. Petill. _Smooth was his cheek,_ Dec. _And his chin it was sleek,_ Jun. _With whoop, he has done wooing._ Dem. Junius _was this Captains name,_ _A lad for a lasses viewing,_ Pet. _Full black his eye, and plump his thigh,_ Dec. _Made up for loves pursuing:_ Dem. _Smooth was his cheeck,_ Petill. _And his chin it was sleek,_ Jun. _With whoop, he has done wooing._ _Petill._ O my vex'd thief, art thou come home again? Are thy brains perfect? _Jun._ Sound as bels. _Petill._ Thy back-worm Quiet, and cast his sting, boy? _Jun._ Dead, _Petillius_, Dead to all folly, and now my anger only. _Pet._ Why, that's well said: hang _Cupid_ and his quiver, A drunken brawling Boy; thy honour'd saint Be thy ten shillings, _Junius_, there's the money, And there's the ware; square dealing: this but sweats thee Like a Mesh nag, and makes thee look pin buttock'd; The other runs thee whining up and down Like a pig in a storm, fills thy brains full of madness, And shews thee like a long _Lent_, thy brave body Turn'd to a tail of green-fish without butter. _Dec._ When thou lov'st next, love a good cup of Wine, A Mistress for a King, she leaps to kiss thee, Her red and white's her own; she makes good blood, Takes none away; what she heats sleep can help, Without a groping Surgeon. _Jun._ I am counsell'd, And henceforth, when I doat again,-- _Dem._ Take heed, Ye had almost paid for't. _Petill._ Love no more great Ladies, Thou canst not step amiss then; there's no delight in 'em; All's in the whistling of their snacht up silks; They're only made for handsome view, not handling; Their bodies of so weak and wash a temper, A rough pac'd bed will shake 'em all to pieces; A tough hen pulls their teeth out, tyres their souls; _Plenæ rimarum sunt_, they are full of rynnet, And take the skin off where they are tasted; shun 'em, They live in cullisses like rotten cocks Stew'd to a tenderness, that holds no tack: Give me a thing I may crush. _Jun._ Thou speak'st truly: The Wars shall be my Mistriss now. _Petil._ Well chosen, For she's a bownsing lass, she'll kiss thee at night, boy, And break thy pate i'th' morning.