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PAROLLES. France is a dog-hole, and it no more merits The tread of a man’s foot: to the wars!

BERTRAM. There’s letters from my mother; what th’ import is I know not yet.

PAROLLES. Ay, that would be known. To th’ wars, my boy, to th’ wars! He wears his honour in a box unseen That hugs his kicky-wicky 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!

BERTRAM. 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.

PAROLLES. Will this caprichio hold in thee, art sure?

BERTRAM. Go with me to my chamber and advise me. I’ll send her straight away. Tomorrow I’ll to the wars, she to her single sorrow.

PAROLLES. 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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