I had rather touch the plague, than one unworthy:
Goe seek some Mistris that a horse may marry,
And keep her company, she is too good for ye. [_Exit._

_Sep._ Marry this goes near; now I perceive I am hatefull,
When this light stuff can distinguish, it grows dangerous,
For mony, seldom they refuse a Leper:
But sure I am more odious, more diseas'd too:

_Enter three lame_ Souldiers.

It sits cold here; what are these? three poor Souldiers?
Both poor and lame: their misery may make 'em
A little look upon me, and adore me,
If these will keep me company, I am made yet.

_1 Sol._ The pleasure _Cæsar_ sleeps in, makes us miserable,
We are forgot, our maims and dangers laugh'd at;
He Banquets, and we beg.

_2 Sol._ He was not wont
To let poor Souldiers that have spent their Fortunes,
Their Bloods, and limbs, walk up and down like vagabonds.

_Sep._ Save ye good Souldiers: good poor men, heaven help ye:
You have born the brunt of war, and shew the story,

_1 Sol._ Some new commander sure.

_Sep._ You look (my good friends)