Luce.
Sir, as I am a maid, I do affect
You above any suitor that I have;
Although that soldiers scarce know how to love.

Sir Arth.
I am a soldier, and a gentleman
Knows what belongs to war, what to a lady.
What man offends me, that my sword shall right;
What woman loves me, I'm her faithful knight.

Luce.
I neither doubt your valour, nor your love.
But there be some that bear a soldier's form,
That swear by him they never think upon;
Go swaggering up and down from house to house,
Crying, God pays all^{8 note}.

Sir Arth.
I'faith, lady, I'll descry you such a man.
Of them there be many which you have spoke of
That bear the name and shape of soldiers,
Yet, God knows, very seldom saw the war:
That haunt your taverns and your ordinaries,
Your ale-houses sometimes, for all alike,
To uphold the brutish humour of their minds,
Being mark'd down for the bondmen of despair:
Their mirth begins in wine, but ends in blood;
Their drink is clear, but their conceits are mud.

Luce.
Yet these are great gentlemen soldiers.

Sir Arth.
No, they are wretched slaves,
Whose desperate lives doth bring them timeless graves^{9 note}.

Luce.
Both for yousrelf ^note, and for your form of life,
If I may choose, I'll be a soldier's wife. [Exeunt.

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