1 Lord.

O, for the love of laughter, hinder not the honour of his design, let him fetch off his drum in any hand.

Ber.

How now Monsieur? this drum sticks sorely in your disposition.

2 Lord.

A pox on't, let it go, 'tis but a drum.

Par.

But a drum! is't but a drum? a drum so lost! there was excellent command! to charge in with our horse upon our own wings, and to rend our own soldiers.

2 Lord.

That was not to be blamed in the command of the service; it was a disaster of war that Cæsar himself could not have prevented, if he had been there to command.

Ber.

Well, we cannot greatly condemn our success: some dishonour we had in the loss of that drum, but it is not to be recover'd.

Par.

It might have been recover'd.

Ber.

It might, but it is not now.

Par.

It is to be recover'd; but that the merit of service is seldom attributed to the true and exact performer, I would have that drum or another, or hic jacet.

Ber.

Why, if you have a stomach to't, Monsieur; if you think your mystery in stratagem can bring this instrument of honour again into his native quarter, be magnanimous in the enterprize and go on, I will grace the attempt for a worthy exploit: if you speed well in it, the Duke shall both speak of it, and extend to you what further becomes his greatness, even to the utmost syllable of your worthiness.

Par.

By the hand of a soldier I will undertake it.

Ber.

But you must not now slumber in it.

Par.

I'll about it this evening, and I will presently pen down

my dilemmas, encourage my self in my certainty, put my self into my mortal preparation; and by midnight look to hear further from me.

Ber.

May I be bold to acquaint his Grace you are gone about it?

Par.

I know not what the success will be, my Lord; but the attempt I vow.

Ber.

I know th'art valiant, and to the possibility of thy soldiership, will subscribe for thee; farewel.

Par.

I love not many words.