_Crom._ It seemeth that
The ungodly fret. Go, place him in the stocks.
I charge ye harm him not--
But give him ale,
Wine, and a scurvy song-book--Such as he
Do make us triumph. Fie, fie, Cornet Dean!
Well, stop his mouth, an't please ye; come, away!
[_Trumpets sound._]
This is a gift of God, see burial
Unto the dead--now on to Marston Moor.

[_Exeunt U.E.R._]

[_Enter WILLIAM, U.E.L._]

_Will._ So my master hath at last turned roundhead
with a vengeance, and therefore I, to whom the rogue
is necessary, am here, on the brink of nowhere. To
think that so much merit may be quenched by the
mechanical art of a base gunner, who hath no fear in
his actions; for I take it that a discreet reverence for
the body we live in, which the vulgar term fear,
shows the best proof of the value of the individual.
Egad! life here is as cheap as the grass on an empty
common, where there is no democracy of goose to
hiss at the kingly shadow of a single ass in God's
sunshine. My master hath not done well; for he
must have known that I could not leave him without
a moral guide and companion--to die, too, with the
sin of my unpaid wages on his conscience. Well,