_Will._ An't please you, we had no time for grace;
but we return thanks to you, under Heaven.

_Des._ This then is your work, General Cromwell!
Call you this discipline?

_Crom._ [_To the Soldiers as they enter, R._] Go hence,
you rascals.

[_Soldiers entering with whooping and shouts._]

Sound bugles! fall in! quick march!

[_The Soldiers march round and fall in a line in perfect order,
WILLIAM bringing up the rear, shouldering a bone._]

_Ire._ [_To Arthur Walton._] See you now the bent
of this? How he doth make them his own? I tell
you that the day will come, this host shall follow him
alone, ay! and perchance England--

_Crom._ [_To Desborough, who has remained apart,
indignant._] Come, Desborough! if thou hast digested
thine indignation--[_Taking Desborough's arm, kindly._]

_Ire._ As he will never his dinner.

_Crom._ Thou wilt unto my tent, where is store of
wholesome food.