_Rab._ Let's barbicu this fat Rogue.
_Bac._ Be gone, and know your distance to the Council.
[The Rabble let 'em go.
_Well._ I'd rather perish by the meanest Hand, than owe my safety poorly thus to _Bacon_.
[In Rage.
_Bac._ If you persist still in that mind I'll leave you, and conquering make you happy 'gainst your will.
[Ex. _Bacon_ and Rabble, hollowing a _Bacon_, a _Bacon_.
_Well._ Oh villanous Cowards! who will trust his Honour with Sycophants so base? Let us to Arms--by Heaven, I will not give my Body rest, till I've chastised the boldness of this Rebel.
[Exeunt _Well._ _Down._ and the rest, all but _Dull._ _Tim._ peeps from under the Table.
_Tim._ What, is the roistering Hector gone, Brother?
_Dull._ Ay, ay, and the Devil go with him.
[Looking sadly, _Tim._ comes out.
_Tim._ Was there ever such a Bull of _Bashan_! Why, what if he should come down upon us and kill us all for Traitors.
_Dull._ I rather think the Council will hang us all for Cowards--ah--oh--a Drum--a Drum--oh.
[He goes out.
_Tim._ This is the Misery of being great.
We're sacrific'd to every turn of State. [Exit.
ACT III.
SCENE I. The Country Court, a great Table, with Papers, a _Clerk writing._
Enter a great many People of all sorts, then _Friendly_, after him _Dullman_.
_Friend._ How now, Major; what, they say _Bacon_ scar'd you all out of the Council yesterday; What say the People?
_Dull._ Say? they curse us all, and drink young _Frightall's_ Health, and swear they'll fight through Fire and Brimstone for him.
_Friend._ And to morrow will hollow him to the Gallows, if it were his chance to come there.
_Dull._ 'Tis very likely: Why, I am forced to be guarded to the Court now, the Rabble swore they would _De-Wit_ me, but I shall hamper some of 'em. Wou'd the Governour were here to bear the brunt on't, for they call us the evil Counsellors.
Enter _Hazard_, goes to _Friendly_.
Here's the young Rogue that drew upon us too, we have Rods in Piss for him, i'faith.
Enter _Timorous_ with _Bailiffs_, whispers to _Dullman_, after which to the _Bailiffs_.
_Tim._ Gadzoors, that's he, do your Office.
_Bail._ We arrest you, Sir, in the King's Name, at the suit of the honourable Justice _Timorous_.
_Haz._ Justice _Timorous_! who the Devil's he?
_Tim._ I am the man, Sir, d'ye see, for want of a better; you shall repent, Guds zoors, your putting of tricks upon Persons of my Rank and Quality.
[After he has spoke, he runs back as afraid of him.
_Haz._ Your Rank and Quality!
_Tim._ Ay, Sir, my Rank and Quality; first I am one of the honourable Council, next, a Justice of Peace in _Quorum_, Cornet of a Troop of Horse, d'ye see, and Church-warden.
_Friend._ From whence proceeds this, Mr. Justice? you said nothing of this at Madam _Ranter's_ yesterday; you saw him there, then you were good Friends.
_Tim._ Ay, however I have carried my Body swimmingly before my Mistress, d'ye see, I had Rancour in my Heart, Gads zoors.
_Friend._ Why, this Gentleman's a Stranger, and but lately come ashore.
_Haz._ At my first landing I was in company with this Fellow and two or three of his cruel Brethren, where I was affronted by them, some Words pass'd, and I drew--
_Tim._ Ay, ay, Sir, you shall pay for't,--why--what, Sir, cannot a civil Magistrate affront a Man, but he must be drawn upon presently?
_Friend._ Well, Sir, the Gentleman shall answer your Suit, and I hope you'll take my Bail for him.
_Tim._ 'Tis enough--I know you to be a civil Person.
_Timorous_ and _Dullman_ take their Places on a long Bench placed behind the Table, to them _Whimsey_ and _Whiff_, they seat themselves, then _Boozer_ and two or three more; who seat themselves: Then enter two, bearing a Bowl of Punch and a great Ladle or two in it; the rest of the Stage being fill'd with People.
_Whiff._ Brothers, it hath often been mov'd at the Bench, that a new Punch-Bowl shou'd be provided, and one of a larger Circumference; when the Bench sits late about weighty Affairs, oftentimes the Bowl is emptied before we end.
_Whim._ A good Motion; Clerk, set it down.
_Clerk._ Mr. Justice _Boozer_, the Council has order'd you a Writ of Ease, and dismiss your Worship from the Bench.
_Booz._ Me from the Bench, for what?
_Whim._ The Complaint is, Brother _Boozer_, for drinking too much Punch in the time of hearing Tryals.
_Whiff._ And that you can neither write nor read, nor say the Lord's Prayer.
_Tim._ That your Warrants are like a Brewer's Tally, a Notch on a Stick; if a special Warrant, then a couple. Gods zoors, when his Excellency comes he will have no such Justices.
_Booz._ Why, Brother, though I can't read my self, I have had _Dalton's_ Country-Justice read over to me two or three times, and understand the Law. This is your Malice, Brother _Whiff_, because my Wife does not come to your Warehouse to buy her Commodities,--but no matter, to show I have no Malice in my Heart, I drink your Health.--I care not this, I can turn Lawyer, and plead at the Board.
[Drinks, all pledge him, and hum.