Page 830 - Shakespeare - Vol. 3

PAROLLES

Good, very good, it is so then. Good, very good; let it be concealed awhile.
[260]

BERTRAM
Undone and forfeited to cares for ever!

PAROLLES
What’s the matter, sweetheart?

BERTRAM
Although before the solemn priest I have sworn,

I will not bed her.

PAROLLES
What, what, sweetheart? [265]

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 th’wars!

BERTRAM

There’s letters from my mother: what th’import is [270]
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, [275]
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.