_Marg._ The time's at hand, my lord; the enemy, Hearing of succours daily flocking to us, Is marching, as I gather, towards our camp-- Therefore, good Seneschal, look to our troops: Keep all our men in readiness;--ride thro' the ranks, And cheer the soldiery.--Come, bustle, bustle. Oh! we'll not fail, I warrant!--How now, sirrah? How came you here? [_To the FOOL._ _Fool._ Willy nilly, madam, as the thief came to the gallows. I am a modest guest here, madam, with a poor stomach for fighting, and need a deal of pressing before I fall to. When Providence made plumbers, it did wisely to leave me out of the number; for, Heaven knows, I take but little delight in lead: but here are two who come to traffic in that commodity. [_Points to ADELINE and GREGORY._ _Marg._ How mean you, sir? What are these men? _Fool._ Swelling spirits, madam, with shrunk fortunes, as I take it;--as painful to the owners, as your gouty leg in a tight boot: but if a man's word be not taken in the world, he's forced to come to blows to keep up a reputation. Poverty without spirit lets in the frost upon him worse than a crazy portal at Christmas; so here are a couple of warped doors in the foul weather of adversity, madam, who want to be listed. _Marg._ I never saw a youth of better promise: But say, young man, serve you here willingly In these our wars? [_To ADELINE._ _Adeline._ Yes, madam, if it please you; And, if my youth should lack ability, I do beseech you, let my honest will Atone for its defect:--yet I will say-- And yet I would not boast--that a weak boy May show you that he is zealous in your service: For tho' but green in years, alas! misfortune Has sorely wrung my heart!--and the proud world, (I blush for't, while I utter it)--must know What 'tis to suffer, ere its thoughtless breast, Callous in happiness, can warm with feeling For others in distress. _Marg._ Poor youth! I pity thee. And for thy willingness, which I esteem In friendly working more than if thou brought'st The strength of Hercules to nerve our battle, Should the just Heavens smile on our enterprise, I will not, trust me, youth, forget thee.-- _Enter a MESSENGER._ Now the news! _Mess._ The enemy approaches. On the brow Of the next hill, rising a short mile hence, Their colours wave. _La Var._ Now then for the issue! _Marg._ Ha!--So near! Who is't that leads their power? _Mess._ The Marquis of Montague, so please your Majesty. [_Exit._