_Fear._ Nay, she's generous too.
_Dar._ Yes, when she's drunk, and then she'll lavish all.
_Ran._ A pox on him, how he vexes me.
_Dar._ Then such a Tongue--she'll rail and smoke till she choke again; then six Gallons of Punch hardly recovers her, and never but then is she good-natur'd.
_Ran._ I must lay him on--
_Dar._ There's not a Blockhead in the Country that has not--
_Ran._ What--
_Dar._ Been drunk with her.
_Ran._ I thought you had meant something else, Sir. [In huff.
_Dar._ Nay--as for that--I suppose there is no great difficulty.
_Ran._ 'Sdeath, Sir, you lye--and you are a Son of a Whore.
[Draws and fences with him, and he runs back round the Stage.
_Dar._ Hold--hold, Virago--dear Widow, hold, and give me thy hand.
_Ran._ Widow!
_Dar._ 'Sdeath, I knew thee by instinct, Widow, though I seemed not to do so, in Revenge for the Trick you put on me in telling me a Lady dy'd for me.
_Ran._ Why, such an one there is, perhaps she may dwindle forty or fifty years--or so--but will never be her own Woman again, that's certain.
_Sure._ This we are all ready to testify, we know her.
_Chris._ Upon my Life, 'tis true.
_Dar._ Widow, I have a shreud Suspicion, that you your self may be this dying Lady.
_Ran._ Why so, Coxcomb?
_Dar._ Because you took such Pains to put your self into my hands.
_Ran._ Gad, if your Heart were but half so true as your Guess, we should conclude a Peace before _Bacon_ and the Council will--besides, this thing whines for _Friendly_, and there's no hopes.
[To _Chrisante_.
_Dar._ Give me thy Hand, Widow, I am thine--and so entirely, I will never--be drunk out of thy Company:--_Dunce_ is in my Tent,--prithee let's in and bind the Bargain.
_Ran._ Nay, faith, let's see the Wars at an end first.
_Dar._ Nay, prithee take me in the humour, while thy Breeches are on--for I never lik'd thee half so well in Petticoats.
_Ran._ Lead on, General, you give me good incouragement to wear them.
[Exeunt.
ACT V.
SCENE I. The _Sevana_ in sight of the Camp; the Moon rises.
Enter _Friendly_, _Hazard_ and _Boozer_, and a Party of Men.
_Friend._ We are now in sight of the Tents.
_Booz._ Is not this a rash Attempt, Gentlemen, with so small Force to set upon _Bacon's_ whole Army?
_Haz._ Oh, they are drunk with Victory and Wine; there will be nought but revelling to night.
_Friend._ Would we could learn in what Quarter the Ladies are lodg'd, for we have no other business but to release them--But hark--who comes here?
_Booz._ Some Scouts, I fear, from the Enemy.
Enter _Dull._ _Tim._ _Whim._ and _Whiff_, creeping as in the dark.
_Friend._ Let's shelter ourselves behind yonder Trees--lest we be surpriz'd.
_Tim._ Wou'd I were well at home-Gad zoors, if e'er you catch me a Cadeeing again, I'll be content to be set in the fore-front of the Battle for Hawks-Meat.
_Whim._ Thou'rt afraid of every Bush.
_Tim._ Ay, and good reason too: Gad zoors, there may be Rogues hid--prithee, Major, do thou advance.
_Dull._ No, no, go on--no matter of Ceremony in these cases of running away.
[They advance.
_Friend._ They approach directly to us, we cannot escape them--their numbers are not great--let us advance.
[They come up to them.
_Tim._ Oh! I am annihilated.
_Whiff._ Some of _Frightall's_ Scouts, we are lost Men.
[They push each other foremost.
_Friend._ Who goes there?
_Whim._ Oh, they'll give us no Quarter; 'twas long of you, Cornet, that we ran away from our Colours.