MY liege, I did deny no prisoners;

But I remember, when the fight was done,

When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,

Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,

Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dress’d,

Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin, new reap’d,

Show’d like a stubble-land at harvest-home.

He was perfumÉd like a milliner,

And ’twixt his finger and his thumb he held

A pouncet-box, which ever and anon

He gave his nose and took ’t away again;

Who, therewith angry, when it next came there,

Took it in snuff: and still he smil’d and talk’d,

And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,

He call’d them untaught knaves, unmannerly,

To bring a slovenly, unhandsome corse

Betwixt the wind and his nobility.

With many holiday and lady terms

He question’d me; among the rest, demanded

My prisoners in your Majesty’s behalf.

I then, all smarting with my wounds being cold,

To be so pester’d with a popinjay,

Out of my grief and my impatience,

Answer’d neglectingly I know not what,

He should, or he should not; for he made me mad

To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,

Of guns and drums and wounds—God save the mark!—

And telling me the sovereign’st thing on earth

Was parmaceti for an inward bruise;

And that it was great pity, so it was,

This villainous saltpetre should be digg’d

Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,

Which many a good tall fellow had destroy’d

So cowardly; and but for these vile guns,

He would himself have been a soldier.

This bald, unjointed chat of his, my lord,

I answer’d indirectly, as I said;

And I beseech you, let not this report

Come current for an accusation

Betwixt my love and your high Majesty.