me of your service to us.

Fran. 'Tis a ridiculous thing for a man to be his own chronicle: I did
never wash my mouth with mine own praise, for fear of getting a
stinking breath.

Marc. You 're too stoical. The duke will expect other discourse from
you.

Fran. I shall never flatter him: I have studied man too much to do
that. What difference is between the duke and I? no more than between
two bricks, all made of one clay: only 't may be one is placed in top
of a turret, the other in the bottom of a well, by mere chance. If I
were placed as high as the duke, I should stick as fast, make as fair a
show, and bear out weather equally.

Flam. If this soldier had a patent to beg in churches, then he would
tell them stories.

Marc. I have been a soldier too.

Fran. How have you thrived?

Marc. Faith, poorly.

Fran. That 's the misery of peace: only outsides are then respected.
As ships seem very great upon the river, which show very little upon
the seas, so some men i' th' court seem Colossuses in a chamber, who,
if they came into the field, would appear pitiful pigmies.

Flam. Give me a fair room yet hung with arras, and some great cardinal
to lug me by th' ears, as his endeared minion.

Fran. And thou mayest do the devil knows what villainy.

Flam. And safely.

Fran. Right: you shall see in the country, in harvest-time, pigeons,
though they destroy never so much corn, the farmer dare not present the
fowling-piece to them: why? because they belong to the lord of the
manor; whilst your poor sparrows, that belong to the Lord of Heaven,
they go to the pot for 't.

Flam. I will now give you some politic instruction. The duke says he
will give you pension; that 's but bare promise; get it under his hand.
For I have known men that have come from serving against the Turk, for
three or four months they have had pension to buy them new wooden legs,
and fresh plasters; but after, 'twas not to be had. And this miserable
courtesy shows as if a tormentor should give hot cordial drinks to one
three-quarters dead o' th' rack, only to fetch the miserable soul again
to endure more dog-days.
[Exit Francisco. Enter Hortensio, a young Lord, Zanche, and two more.
How now, gallants? what, are they ready for the barriers?

Young Lord. Yes: the lords are putting on their armour.

Hort. What 's he?

Flam. A n