Tomorrow, today, presently; you shall have the drum strook up
Tomorrow, today, presently; you shall have the drum strook up this afternoon. ‘Tis, as it were, a parcel of their feast, and to be executed ere they wipe their lips.
Why then we shall have a stirring world again. This peace is nothing but to rust iron, increase tailors, and breed ballad-makers.
Let me have war, say I, it exceeds peace as far as day does night; it's sprightly, waking, audible, and full of vent. Peace is a very apoplexy, lethargy, mull'd, deaf, sleepy, insensible, a getter of more bastard children than war's a destroyer of men.
‘Tis so, and as wars, in some sort, may be said to be a ravisher, so it cannot be denied but peace is a great maker of cuckolds.
Ay, and it makes men hate one another.
Reason: because they then less need one another. The wars for my money! I hope to see Romans as cheap as Volscians.—They are rising, they are rising.
Both First and Second Servingmen
In, in, in, in!