SCENE I.

_A Village, on the Skirts of the Forest._

_Enter FOOL and a VILLAGER._

_Vil._ Tell me, good fellow, now, I pr'ythee--

_Fool._ But wilt thou lend an ear to my tale?

_Vil._ That will I; all the ears I am worth.

_Fool._ Then need not I tell the story:--for, if thou lend'st all thy ears, then thou'lt have none left to hear it.--Wast ever in a battle, old boy?

_Vil._ No, truly!

_Fool._ Then thou art a dead man.

_Vil._ What, for not being in a battle!

_Fool._ Yea, marry,--by the very first rapier that comes in thy way;--for no man can live by the sword but a soldier;--and of soldiers there are three degrees; and three only.

_Vil._ As how?

_Fool._ As thus:--Your hot fighter--your cool fighter--and your fighter-shy.--The last degree makes a wondrous figure, in many muster-rolls.

_Vil._ Of which last you make one.

_Fool._ In some degree.

_Vil._ And it was that made you run from the battle.

_Fool._ Right; running is your only surety. Bully Achilles, the great warrior of old, thought otherwise; and he was vulnerable only in the heel:--now, my heels always insure me from being wounded.--Dost know why Heaven makes one leg of a man stouter than the other?

_Vil._ No.

_Fool._ That he may be able to put the best leg foremost, when there's occasion.

_Vil._ And you had occasion enough, last night.

_Fool._ Truly, had I; and thus came I to your cottage; where I slept on a bare board all night.

_Vil._ Ah! Heaven knows my lodging is poor enough! but such as it is, you are welcome.

_Fool._ Nay, I quarrel not with the lodging; I only complain of the board--and now wouldst thou know my story.

_Vil._ I would willingly hear of the battle that was lost.

_Fool._ Then pr'ythee, ask of those that found it: but, come, I'll e'en tell thee how it was.----Thou hast a wife?

_Vil._ Yes, forsooth;--that was my old dame you saw at home.

_Fool._ Keep her there; for nature plainly intended her for a homely woman--Didst ever quarrel with her before marriage?

_Vil._ Never.

_Fool._ Afterwards, a little?

_Vil._ Um!--Why, to say the truth, my poor dame has a fine flourish with a cudgel; but people will needs fall out, now and then, when once they come together.

_Fool._ That's the very way we lost the battle:--for had the two parties never met, depend on't, one had never cudgel'd the other.

_Vil._ Mass! thou art a rare fellow in the field!

_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._

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.