SCENE II. A street.

[Enter George Pye-board, a scholar and a Citizen, and unto
him an old soldier, Peter Skirmish.]

PYE.
What's to be done now, old Lad of War? thou that wert wont
to be as hot as a turn-spit, as nimble as a fencer, and as
lousy as a school-master; now thou art put to silence like
a Sectary.--War sits now like a Justice of peace, and does
nothing. Where be your Muskets, Caleiuers and Hotshots? in
Long-lane, at Pawn, at Pawn.--Now keys are your only Guns,
Key-guns, Key-guns, and Bawds the Gunners, who are your
Sentinels in peace, and stand ready charg'd to give warning,
with hems, hums, and pockey-coffs; only your Chambers are
licenc'st to play upon you, and Drabs enow to give fire to 'em.

SKIRMISH.
Well, I cannot tell, but I am sure it goes wrong with me, for
since the cessure of the wars, I have spent above a hundred
crowns out a purse. I have been a soldier any time this
forty years, and now I perceive an old soldier and an old
Courtier have both one destiny, and in the end turn both into
hob-nails.

PYE.
Pretty mystery for a begger, for indeed a hob-nail is the true
emblem of a begger's shoe-sole.