_Fool._ Very rare;--for I never come there but when I can't help it. SONG.--FOOL. _To arms, to arms, when Captains cry,_ _With a heigho! the trumpets blow--_ _To legs, to legs, brave boys, say I!_ _Heigho;_ _I needs must go._ _Arrows swift begin to fly,_ _With a heigho! Twang goes the bow--_ _And soldiers tumble down and die:--_ _Heigho!_ _I'll not do so._ _Whizzing by come balls of lead;_ _With a heigho! thump they go.--_ _Tall men grow shorter by the head;_ _Heigho!_ _I'd rather grow._ _In time of trouble I'm away;_ _With a heigho!--ill winds blow;_ _But always ready at pay day;_ _Heigho!_ _Great folks do so._ _Enter another VILLAGER._ _1 Vil._ Now, goodman Hobs, whence come you? _2 Vil._ There is a great lord come in, from the routed party, who has taken shelter in our village, since break of day. One of your great friends, good sir. [_To the FOOL._ _Fool._ Didst see him! how look'd he? _2 Vil._ I tended him, some quarter of an hour:--troth, he seem'd wondrous weary. _Fool._ Of thy company.--Now could I be weary too, and find in my heart to be dull:--but here come females; and, were a man's head emptier than a spendthrift's purse, they will ever bring something out on't. Hence comes it, that your dull husband's head is improved by your lively wife:--if she can bring out nothing else, why she brings out horns. _Enter VILLAGERS, Male and Female._ Now, good folk, whither go you? _3 Vil._ Truly, sir, this is our season for making of hay; and here am I, sir, with the rest of our village, going about it. _Fool._ Now might I, were it not for disgracing the army, turn mower among these clowns;--and why not? Soldiers are but cutters down of flesh, and flesh is grass, all the world over. I'll e'en out, this morning, and do execution in the field.--Come, lads and maidens! One roundelay, and we'll to't! SONG AND CHORUS OF VILLAGERS. 1 Wom. _Drifted snow no more is seen;_ _Blust'ring Winter passes by;_ _Merry Spring comes clad in green,_ _While woodlarks pour their melody._ _I hear him! hark!_ _The merry lark,_ _Calls us to the new mown hay,_ _Piping to our roundelay._ 2 Vil. _When the golden sun appears,_ _On the mountain's surly brow;_ _When his jolly beams he rears,_ _Darting joy--behold them now!--_ _Then, then, oh, hark!--_ _The merry lark_ _Calls us to the new mown hay,_ _Piping to our roundelay._