You are not
worth another word, else I'ld call you knave. I leave you.
[Exit]
PAROLLES Good, very good; it is so then: good, very good;
let it be concealed awhile.
[Re-enter BERTRAM]
BERTRAM Undone, and forfeited to cares for ever!
PAROLLES What's the matter, sweet-heart?
BERTRAM Although before the solemn priest I have sworn,
I will not bed her.
PAROLLES What, what, sweet-heart?
BERTRAM O my Parolles, they have married me!
I'll to the Tuscan wars, and never bed her.
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 the import is,
I know not yet.
PAROLLES Ay, that would be known. To the wars, my boy, to the 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 the 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.
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