_Wife._ Ralph, I would have thee call all the youths together in battle-ray, with drums, and guns, and flags, and march to Mile End in pompous fashion, and there exhort your soldiers to be merry and wise, and to keep their beards from burning, Ralph; and then skirmish, and let your flags fly, and cry, Kill, kill, kill! My husband shall lend you his jerkin, Ralph, and there's a scarf; for the rest, the house shall furnish you, and we'll pay for't: do it bravely, Ralph, and think before whom you perform, and what person you represent. _Ralph._ I warrant you, mistress, if I do it not, for the honour of the city, and the credit of my master, let me never hope for freedom. _Wife._ 'Tis well spoken i'faith; go thy ways, thou art a spark indeed. _Cit._ Ralph, double your files bravely, Ralph. _Ralph._ I warrant you, sir. [_Exit_ RALPH. _Cit._ Let him look narrowly to his service, I shall take him else; I was there myself a pike-man once, in the hottest of the day, wench; had my feather shot sheer away, the fringe of my pike burnt off with powder, my pate broken with a scouring-stick, and yet I thank God I am here. [_Drum within._ _Wife._ Hark, George, the drums! _Cit._ Ran, tan, tan, tan, ran tan. Oh, wench, an' thou hadst but seen little Ned of Aldgate, drum Ned, how he made it roar again, and laid on like a tyrant, and then struck softly till the Ward came up, and then thundered again, and together we go: "Sa, sa, sa," bounce quoth the guns; "Courage, my hearts," quoth the captains; "Saint George," quoth the pike-men; and withal here they lay, and there they lay; and yet for all this I am here, wench. _Wife._ Be thankful for it, George, for indeed 'tis wonderful. _Enter_ RALPH _and his Company, with drums and colours_. _Ralph._ March fair, my hearts; lieutenant, beat the rear up; ancient, let your colours fly; but have a great care of the butchers' hooks at Whitechapel, they have been the death of many a fair ancient. Open your files, that I may take a view both of your persons and munition. Sergeant, call a muster. _Serg._ A stand. William Hamerton, pewterer. _Ham._ Here, Captain. _Ralph._ A croslet and a Spanish pike; 'tis well, can you shake it with a terror? _Ham._ I hope so, captain. _Ralph._ Charge upon me--'tis with the weakest. Put more strength, William Hamerton, more strength. As you were again; proceed, sergeant. _Serg._ George Green-goose, poulterer. _Green._ Here. _Ralph._ Let me see your piece, neighbour Green-goose. When was she shot in? _Green._ An' like you, master captain, I made a shot even now, partly to scour her, and partly for audacity. _Ralph._ It should seem so, certainly, for her breath is yet inflamed; besides, there is a main fault in the touch-hole, it stinketh. And I tell you, moreover, and believe it, ten such touch-holes would poison the army; get you a feather, neighbour, get you a feather, sweet oil and paper, and your piece may do well enough yet. Where's your powder?