[Ex. _Dar._ _Dun._ _Dull._ and _Tim._ as _Fear._ goes out a Soldier meets him.
_Sold._ What does your Honour intend to do with _Whimsey_ and _Whiff_, who are condemn'd by a Council of War?
Enter _Daring_, _Dullman_, _Tim._ _Fearless_, and Officers.
_Dar._ You come too late, Gentlemen, to be put into the Articles; nor am I satisfy'd you're worthy of it.
_Dull._ Why, did not you, Sir, see us lie dead in the Field?
_Dar._ Yes, but I see no Wound about you.
_Tim._ We were stun'd with being knock'd down; Gads zoors, a Man may be kill'd with the but-end of a Musquet, as soon as with the point of a Sword.
Enter _Dunce_.
_Dun._ The Council, Sir, wishes you Health and Happiness, and sends you these sign'd by their Hands-- [Gives Papers.
_Dar._ reads.
That you shall have a general Pardon for your self and Friends; that you shall have all new Commissions, and _Daring_ to command as General; that you shall have free leave to inter your dead General in _James_ Town. And to ratify this, we will meet you at Madam _Surelove's_ House, which stands between the Armies, attended only by our Officers.
The Council's noble, and I'll wait upon them.
[Exeunt.
SCENE V. A Grove near Madam _Surelove's_.
Enter _Surelove_ weeping, _Well._ _Chrisante_, Mrs. _Flirt_, _Ranter_ as before, _Down._ _Haz._ _Friend._ _Booz._ _Brag_.
_Well._ How long, Madam, have you heard the News of Col. _Surelove's_ Death?
_Sure._ By a Vessel last Night arriv'd.
_Well._ You shou'd not grieve when Men so old pay their debt to Nature; you are too fair not to have been reserved for some young Lover's Arms.
_Haz._ I dare not speak,--but give me leave to hope.
_Sure._ The way to oblige me to't, is never more to speak to me of Love till I shall think it fit-- [_Wellman_ speaks to _Down._
_Well._ Come, you shan't grant it--'tis a hopeful Youth.
_Down._ You are too much my Friend to be denied--_Chrisante_, do you love _Friendly_? nay, do not blush--till you have done a fault, your loving him is none--Here, take her, young Man, and with her all my Fortune--when I am dead, Sirrah--not a Groat before--unless to buy ye Baby-Clouts.
_Friend._ He merits not this Treasure, Sir, can wish for more.
Enter _Daring_, _Fearless_, _Dunce_, Officers, and the rest, they meet _Well._ and _Down._ who embrace 'em. _Dull._ and _Tim._ stand.
_Dar._ Can you forgive us, Sir, our Disobedience?
_Well._ Your offering Peace while yet you might command it, has made such kind impressions on us, that now you may command your Propositions; your Pardons are all seal'd and new Commissions.
_Dar._ I'm not ambitious of that Honour, Sir, but in obedience will accept your Goodness; but, Sir, I hear I have a young Friend taken Prisoner by Captain _Hazard_, whom I intreat you will render me.
_Haz._ Sir--here I resign him to you. [Gives him _Ran._
_Ran._ Faith, General, you left me but scurvily in Battle.
_Dar._ That was to see how well you cou'd shift for your self; now I find you can bear the brunt of a Campaign, you are a fit Wife for a Soldier.
_All._ A Woman--_Ranter_--
_Haz._ Faith, Madam, I should have given you kinder Quarter, if I had known my happiness.
_Flirt._ I have an humble Petition to you, Sir.
_Sure._ In which we all join.
_Flirt._ An't please you, Sir, Mr. _Dunce_ has long made Love to me, and on promise of Marriage has-- [Simpers.
_Down._ What has he, Mistress? What has he, Mrs. _Flirt_?
_Flirt._ Only been a little familiar with my Person, Sir--
_Well._ Do you hear, Parson--you must marry Mrs. _Flirt_.
_Dun._ How, Sir, a Man of my Coat, Sir, marry a Brandy-monger?
_Well._ Of your Calling you mean, a Farrier and no Parson-- [Aside to him.
She'll leave her Trade, and spark it above all the Ladies at Church: No more--take her, and make her honest.
Enter _Whim._ and _Whiff_ stript.
_Chris._ Bless me, what have we here?
_Whim._ Why, an't like your Honours, we were taken by the Enemy--hah, _Daring_ here, and _Fearless_?
_Fear._ How now, Gentlemen, were not you two condemn'd to be shot for running from your Colours.
_Down._ From your Colours!
_Fear._ Yes, Sir, they were both listed in my Regiment.
_Down._ Then we must hang them for deserting us.
_Whim._ So, out of the Frying Pan--you know where, Brother--
_Whiff._ Ay, he that's born to be hang'd--you know the rest; a Pox of these Proverbs.