Scene V The Road to Ardea
Enter Sextus, Aruns, Horatius, Brutus, Scevola, and Valerius.
Horatius.
Return to Rome now we are in the midway to the camp!
Sextus.
My lords, ’tis business that concerns my life:
To-morrow, if we live, we’ll visit thee.
Valerius.
Will Sextus enjoin me to accompany him?
Scevola.
Or me?
Sextus.
Nor you, nor any: ’tis important business
And serious occurrences that call me.
Perhaps, lords, I’ll commend you to your wives.
Collatine, shall I do you any service to your Lucrece?
Collatine.
Only commend me.
Sextus.
What, no private token to purchase our kind welcome?
Collatine.
Would royal Sextus would but honour me
To bear her a slight token.
Sextus.
What?
Collatine.
This ring.
Sextus.
As I am royal I will see’t delivered.
[Aside.] This ring to Lucrece shall my love convey,
And in this gift thou dost thy bed betray.
To-morrow we shall meet.—This night, sweet fate,
May I prove welcome, though a guest ingrate! [Exit.
Aruns.
He’s for the city, we for the camp. The night makes the way tedious and melancholy; prithee a merry song to beguile it.
Valerius.
[Sings.] There was a young man and a maid fell in love,
Terry derry ding, terry derry ding, terry derry dino.
To get her good will he often did——48
Terry derry ding, terry derry ding, langtido dille.
There’s many will say, and most will allow,
Terry derry ding, terry derry ding, &c.,
There’s nothing so good as a terry derry ding, &c.
I would wish all maids before they be sick,
Terry derry, &c.
To inquire for a young man that has a good——
Terry derry, &c.
Scevola.
Nay, my lord, I heard them all have a conceit of an Englishman—a strange people, in the western islands—one that for his variety in habit, humour, and gesture, puts down all other nations whatsoever; a little of that, if you love me.
Valerius.
Well, Scevola, you shall.
[Sings.]49 The Spaniard loves his ancient slop,
The Lombard his Venetian,
And some like breechless women go—
The Russ, Turk, Jew, and Grecian;
The thrifty Frenchman wears small waist,
The Dutch his belly boasteth;
The Englishman is for them all,
And for each fashion coasteth.
The Turk in linen wraps his head,
The Persian his in lawn too;
The Russ with sables furs his cap,
And change will not be drawn to;
The Spaniard’s constant to his block;
The French, inconstant ever;
But, of all felts that can be felt,
Give me your English beaver.
The German loves his cony-wool,50
The Irishman his shag51 too;
The Welsh his monmouth52 loves to wear,
And of the same will brag too;
Some love the rough, and some the smooth,
Some great, and others small things;
But oh, your lecherous Englishman,
He loves to deal in all things.
The Russ drinks quass; Dutch, Lubeck beer,
And that is strong and mighty;
The Briton, he metheglin quaffs;
The Irish, aquavitæ;
The French affects the Orleans grape,
The Spaniard tastes his sherry;
The English none of these can scape,
But he with all makes merry.
The Italian in her high chapine,53
Scotch lass, and lovely frau too,
The Spanish donna, French madame,
He will not fear to go to;
Nothing so full of hazard dread,
Nought lives above the centre,
No fashion, health, no wine, nor wench,
On which he dare not venture.
Horatius.
Good Valerius, this has brought us even to the skirts of the camp. Enter, lords.
[Exeunt.