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PAROLLES. Five or six thousand; but very weak and unserviceable: the troops are all scattered, and the commanders very poor rogues, upon my reputation and credit, and as I hope to live.

FIRST SOLDIER. Shall I set down your answer so?

PAROLLES. Do. I’ll take the sacrament on ’t, how and which way you will.

BERTRAM. All’s one to him. What a past-saving slave is this!

FIRST LORD. You are deceived, my lord; this is Monsieur Parolles, the gallant militarist (that was his own phrase), that had the whole theoric of war in the knot of his scarf, and the practice in the chape of his dagger.

SECOND LORD. I will never trust a man again for keeping his sword clean, nor believe he can have everything in him by wearing his apparel neatly.

FIRST SOLDIER. Well, that’s set down.

PAROLLES. ‘Five or six thousand horse’ I said—I will say true—or thereabouts, set down,—for I’ll speak truth.

FIRST LORD. He’s very near the truth in this.

BERTRAM. But I con him no thanks for’t in the nature he delivers it.

PAROLLES. Poor rogues, I pray you say.

FIRST SOLDIER. Well, that’s set down.

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