_Old K._ Come Sir, joyn your charity with mine, and we'll make up a couple of pence bewixt us. _Sir Gr._ If a man could have a pennyworth for his penny, I would bestow more money with 'em. _Witty._ Save you Gentlemen, how now? what are you encount'red here? what fellows are these? _Old K._ Faith Sir, here's _Mars_ and _Mercury_, a pair of poor Planets it seems, that _Jupiter_ has turn'd out to live by their wits, and we are e'en about a little spark of charity to kindle um a new fire. _Witty._ Stay, pray you stay Sir, you may abuse your charity, nay, make that goodness in you no better than a vice; so many deceivers walk in these shadows now a days; that certainly your bounties were better spilt than reserv'd to so lewd and vicious uses; which is he that professes the Soldier? _Ruin._ He that professes his own profession, Sir, and the dangerous life he hath led in it, this pair of half score years. _Witty._ In what services have you been, Sir? _Ruin._ The first that flesht me a Soldier, Sir, was that great battel at _Alcazar_ in _Barbary_, where the noble _English_ _Stukely_ fell, and where that royal _Portugal Sebastian_ ended his untimely days. _Witty._ Are you sure _Sebastian_ died there? _Ruin._ Faith Sir, there was some other rumour hop't amongst us, that he, wounded, escap'd, and toucht on his Native shore agen, where finding his Countrey at home more distrest by the invasion of the _Spaniard_, than his loss abroad, forsook it, still supporting a miserable and unfortunate life, which (where he ended) is yet uncertain. _Witty._ By my faith Sir, he speaks the nearest fame of truth in this. _Ruin._ Since Sir, I serv'd in _France_, the _Low Countreys_, Lastly, at that memorable skirmish at _Newport_, where the forward and bold _Scot_ there spent his life so freely, that from every single heart that there fell, came home from his resolution, a double honor to his Countrey. _Witty._ This should be no counterfeit, Sir. _Old K._ I do not think he is, Sir. _Witty._ But Sir, me thinks you do not shew the marks of a Soldier, could you so freely scape, that you brought home no scarrs to be your chronicle? _Ruin._ Sir, I have wounds, and many, but in those parts where nature and humanity bids me shame to publish. _Witty._ A good Soldier cannot want those badges. _Sir Greg._ Now am not I of your mind in that, for I hold him the best soldier that scapes best, alwaies at a Cock-fencing I give him the best that has the fewest knocks.