Pye.

What's to be done now, old lad of war? Thou that were wont to be as hot as a turnspit, 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, calivers^{3 note} and hot-shots? 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 pocky coughs^{4 note}

: only your chambers are licens'd to play upon you^{5 note}

Skir.

Well, I cannot tell, but I am sure it goes wrong with me; for since the ceasure of the wars I have spent above a hundred crowns out of purse. I have been a soldier any time this forty years; and

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 beggar; for indeed a hob-nail is the true emblem of a beggar's shoesoal.

Skir.

I will not say but that war is a blood-sucker, and so; but in my conscience, (as there is no soldier but has a piece of one, though it be full of holes, like a shot ancient^{6 note}; no matter,—'twill serve to swear by,) in my conscience, I think some kind of peace has more hidden oppressions, and violent heady sins, (though looking of a gentle nature,) than a profess'd war^{7 note}

.

Pye.

'Troth, and for mine own part, I am a poor gentleman, and a scholar; I have been matriculated in the university, wore out six gowns there, seen some fools, and some scholars, some of the city, and some of the country, kept order, went bare-headed over the quadrangle, eat my commons with a good stomach, and battled with discretion^{8 note}

done many sleights and tricks to maintain my wit in use, (as my brain would never endure me to be idle,) I was expell'd the university, only for stealing a cheese out of Jesus college.

Skir.

Is't possible?

Pye.

O! there was one Welshman (God forgive him!) pursued it hard, and never left, till I turn'd my staff toward London; where when I came, all my friends were pit-hol'd, gone to graves; as indeed there was but a few left before. Then was I turn'd to my wits, to shift in the world, to tower* ^note
among sons and heirs, and fools, and gulls, and ladies' eldest sons; to work upon nothing, to feed out of flint: and ever since has my belly been much beholden to my brain. But now to return to you, old Skirmish:—I say as you say, and for my part wish a turbulency in the world; for I have nothing to lose but my wits, and I think they are as mad as they will be: and to strengthen your argument the more, I say an honest war is better than a bawdy peace. As touching my profession; the multiplicity of scholars, hatch'd and nourish'd in the idle calms of peace^{9 note}, makes them, like fishes, one devour another; and the community of learning has so play'd upon affections, that thereby almost religion is come about to phantasy, and discredited by being too much spoken of, in so many and mean mouths. I myself being a scholar and a graduate, have no other comfort by my learning, but the affection

of my words^{1 note}

Skir.

Well, would I had been born a knave then, when I was born a beggar! for if the truth was known, I think I was begot when my father had never a penny in his purse.

Pye.

Puh! faint not, old Skirmish; let this warrant thee—facilis descensus Averni—'tis an easy journey to a knave; thou may'st be a knave when thou wilt: and Peace is a good madam to all other professions, and an errant drab to us. Let us handle her accordingly, and by our wits thrive in despite of her: For since the law lives by quarrels, the courtier by smooth good-morrows, and every profession makes itself greater by imperfections, why not we then by shifts, wiles, and forgeries? And seeing our brains are our only patrimonies, let's spend with judgment; not like a desperate son and heir, but like a sober and discreet Templar: one that will never march beyond the bounds of his allowance. And for our thriving means, thus:—I myself will put on the deceit of a fortune teller.

Skir.

A fortune-teller? Very proper.

Pye.

And you a figure-caster, or a conjurer.

Skir.

A conjurer?

Pye.

Let me alone; I'll instruct you, and teach you to deceive all eyes, but the devil's.

Skir.

O ay, for I would not deceive him, an I could choose, of all others.

Pye.

Fear not, I warrant you. And so by those means we shall help one another to patients; as the condition of the age affords creatures enough for cunning to work upon.

Skir.

O wondrous! new fools and fresh asses.

Pye.

O, fit, fit; excellent.

Skir.

What, in the name of conjuring?

Pye.

My memory greets me happily with an admirable subject to graze upon. The lady widow, whom of late I saw weeping in her garden for the death of her husband, sure she has but a waterish soul, and half of't by this time is dropp'd out of her eyes: device well manag'd may do good upon her: it stands firm; my first practice shall be there.

Skir.

You have my voice, George.

Pye.

She has a grey gull to her brother, a fool to her only son, and an ape to her youngest daughter. I overheard them severally, and from their words I'll derive my device; and thou, old Peter Skirmish, shalt be my second in all sleights.

Skir.

Ne'er doubt me, George Pyeboard;—only you must teach me to conjure.

Pye.

Puh! I'll perfect thee, Peter: How now! what's he?

Skir.

O George! this sight kills me. 'Tis my sworn brother, captain Idle.

Pye.

Captain Idle!

Skir.

Apprehended for some felonious act or other. He has started out,—has made a night on't,— lack'd silver. I cannot but commend his resolution; he would not pawn his buff-jerkin. I would either some of us were employed, or might pitch our tents at usurers' doors, to kill the slaves as they peep out at the wicket.

Pye.

Indeed, those are our ancient enemies; they keep our money in their hands, and make us to be

hang'd for robbing of them. But come, let's follow after to the prison, and know the nature of his offence; and what we can stead him in, he shall be sure of it: and I'll uphold it still, that a charitable knave is better than a soothing Puritan.