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 th' 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 home,
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, 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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