3 Vil. _When the village boy, to field,_ _Tramps it with the buxom lass,_ _Fain she would not seem to yield,_ _Yet gets her tumble on the grass:_ _Then, then, oh, hark!_ _The merry lark,_ _While they tumble in the hay,_ _Pipes alone his roundelay._ 4 Vil. _What are honours? What's a court?_ _Calm content is worth them all:--_ _Our honour lies in cudgel sport;_ _Our brightest court a green-sward ball._ _But then--oh hark!_ _The merry lark,_ _Calls us to the new mown hay,_ _Piping to our roundelay._ [Exeunt. SCENE II. _An old fashioned Apartment, in BARTON'S House, in the Village. Rusty Arms, and other Military Paraphernalia hanging up, in different Parts; &c._ _LA VARENNE and BARTON._ _Barton._ Nay, sir, thank not me: I am no trader, I, in empty forms; In neat congees, and kickshaw compliments; In your,--"Dear sirs," and "Sir, you make me blush;"-- I'm for plain speaking; plain and blunt; besides, I've been a soldier:--and, I take it, sir, You, who are still in service, are aware That blushing seldom troubles the profession. _La Var._ Still, friend, I thank thee.--Thou hast shelter'd me, At a hard trying moment, when the buffets Of tainting fortune rather would persuade Friends to shrink back, than serve me. _Barton._ 'Faith, good sir, I know not how you have been buffetted:-- But this I know,--at least I think I know it-- If there's a soldier, in the world's wide army, Who will not, in the moment of distress, Stretch forth his hand to save a falling comrade, Why, then, I think, that he has little chance Of being found in Heaven's muster-roll. _La Var._ I like thy plainness well. _Barton._ Nay, sir, my plainness Is such as Nature gave me: and would men Leave Nature to herself, good faith, her work Is pretty equal;--but we will be garnishing; Until the heart, like to a beauty's face, Which she ne'er lets alone till she has spoil'd it, Is so befritter'd round, with worldly nonsense, That we can scarcely trace sweet Nature's outlines. _La Var._ Who of our party, pr'ythee, since the battle Have shelter'd here among the villagers?-- Canst tell their names? _Barton._ Ay, marry, can I, sir. But can and will are birds of diff'rent feather. Can is a swan, that bottles up its music, And never lets it out till death is near; But will's a piping bullfinch, that does ever Whistle forth every note it has been taught, To any fool that bids it. Now, sir, mark;-- Whoever's here, would fain be private here; Whoever's here, depend on't, tell I can;-- Whoever's here, depend on't, tell I will not. _La Var._ Why, this is over-caution!--would not they Rejoice as readily at seeing me, As I at seeing them?