BOTH PAGERS.
Yes--honor is dearer than life itself.

FIRST CUIRASSIER.
The sword is no plough, nor delving tool,
He, who would till with it, is but a fool.
For us, neither grass nor grain doth grow,
Houseless the soldier is doomed to go,
A changeful wanderer over the earth,
Ne'er knowing the warmth of a home-lit hearth.
The city glances--he halts--not there--
Nor in village meadows, so green and fair;
The vintage and harvest wreath are twined
He sees, but must leave them far behind.
Then, tell me, what hath the soldier left,
If he's once of his self-esteem bereft?
Something he must have his own to call,
Or on slaughter and burnings at once he'll fall.

FIRST ARQUEBUSIER.
God knows, 'tis a wretched life to live!

FIRST CUIRASSIER.
Yet one, which I, for no other would give,
Look ye--far round in the world I've been,
And all of its different service seen.
The Venetian Republic--the Kings of Spain
And Naples I've served, and served in vain.
Fortune still frowned--and merchant and knight,
Craftsmen and Jesuit, have met my sight;