Par.

Good, very good, it is so then.—Good, very good, let it be conceal'd a while.

Ber.

Undone, and forfeited to cares for ever!

Par.

What is the matter, sweet heart?

Ber.

Although before the solemn Priest I've sworn, I will not bed her.

Par.
What? what, sweet heart?

Ber.
O my Parolles, they have married me:
I'll to the Tuscan wars, and never bed her.

Par.

France is a dog-hole, and it no more merits the tread of a man's foot: to th' wars.

Ber.

There's letters from my mother; what the import is, I know not yet.

Par.
Ay, that would be known: to th' wars, my boy, to th' wars.
He wears his honour in a box, unseen,
That hugs his kicksy-wicksy here at home6Q0128;
Spending his manly marrow in her arms,
Which should sustain the bound and high curvet
Of Mars's fiery steed: to other regions
France is a stable, we that dwell in't jades,
Therefore to th' war.

Ber.
It shall be so, I'll send her to my house,

Acquaint my mother with my hate to her,
And wherefore I am fled; write to the King
That which I durst not speak. His present gift
Shall furnish me to those Italian fields,
Where noble fellows strike. War is no strife
To the dark house,^{9 note}

and the detested wife.

Par.
Will this capricio hold in thee, art sure?

Ber.
Go with me to my chamber, and advise me.
I'll send her straight away: to-morrow
I'll to the wars, she to her single sorrow.

Par.
Why, these balls bound, there's noise in it.—'Tis hard;
A young man, married, is a man that's marr'd:
Therefore away, and leave her bravely; go,
The King has done you wrong: but, hush! 'tis so. [Exeunt.

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