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FIRST SOLDIER. Do you know this Captain Dumaine?

PAROLLES. I know him: he was a botcher’s ’prentice in Paris, from whence he was whipped for getting the shrieve’s fool with child, a dumb innocent that could not say him nay.

[First Lord lifts up his hand in anger.]

BERTRAM. Nay, by your leave, hold your hands; though I know his brains are forfeit to the next tile that falls.

FIRST SOLDIER. Well, is this captain in the Duke of Florence’s camp?

PAROLLES. Upon my knowledge, he is, and lousy.

FIRST LORD. Nay, look not so upon me; we shall hear of your lordship anon.

FIRST SOLDIER. What is his reputation with the duke?

PAROLLES. The duke knows him for no other but a poor officer of mine, and writ to me this other day to turn him out o’ the band. I think I have his letter in my pocket.

FIRST SOLDIER. Marry, we’ll search.

PAROLLES. In good sadness, I do not know; either it is there or it is upon a file, with the duke’s other letters, in my tent.

FIRST SOLDIER. Here ’tis; here’s a paper; shall I read it to you?

PAROLLES. I do not know if it be it or no.

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