_Enter_ Lieutenant.

_Lieu_. I know not: I am mall'd: we are bravely beaten,
All our young gallants lost.

_Leo_. Thou art hurt.

_Lieu_. I am pepper'd,
I was i'th' midst of all: and bang'd of all hands:
They made an anvile of my head, it rings yet;
Never so thresh'd: do you call this fame? I have fam'd it;
I have got immortal fame, but I'le no more on't;
I'le no such scratching Saint to serve hereafter;
O' my conscience I was kill'd above twenty times,
And yet I know not what a Devil's in't,
I crawled away, and lived again still; I am hurt plaguily,
But now I have nothing near so much pain Colonel,
They have sliced me for that maladie.

_Dem_. All the young men lost?

_Lie_. I am glad you are here: but they are all i'th' pound sir,
They'l never ride o're other mens corn again, I take it,
Such frisking, and such flaunting with their feathers,
And such careering with their Mistres favours;
And here must he be pricking out for honour,
And there got he a knock, and down goes pilgarlick,
Commends his soul to his she-saint, and _Exit_.
Another spurs in there, cryes make room villains,