War. Ah, my gued Lord, the Honour is too great. ’Tis not but I’s dare fight, my Lord, but I love not the limmer Loone, he has a villanous honest Face an’s ene; I’s ken’d him ence, and lik’t him not; but I’s drink tol yar gued Fortune; let it gang aboote, ene and ad, Sirs. [All drink. Lam. We’ll leave all Discourse of Bus’ness, and give our selves to Mirth; I fancy good Success from this day’s Omen. Enters _Gill_, whispers L. _Lam._ she rises. L. Lam. Waited so long! 396 Gill. And grew impatient, an’t please your Highness; must I go tell him you cannot see him to night. L. Lam. Not for the World; my silly Politician will be Busying himself in the dull Affairs of State; —Dull in comparison of Love, I mean; I never lov’d before; old _Oliver_ I suffer’d for my Interest, And ’tis some Greatness, to be Mistress to the best; But this mighty Pleasure comes _a propos_, To sweeten all the heavy Toils of Empire. Gill. So it does, an’t please your Highness. L. Lam. Go, let him know I’m coming—Madam, I must beg your Pardon; you hear, my Lord to morrow goes on his great Expedition; and, for any thing we know, may fall a glorious Sacrifice to the Commonwealth; therefore ’tis meet I offer up some Prayers for his Safety, and all my leisure Hours ’twixt this and that, will be too few—Your humble Servant, Madam. [Ex. L. _Lam._ and _Gill._ L. Fleet. My Dear, I’ll leave you too, my time of Devotion is come, and Heav’n will stay for no Body; where are my People? is my Coach ready, or my Chair? Fleet. Go in your Chair, my Love, lest you catch cold. L. Fleet. And light your Flambeaus,—I love to have my Chair surrounded with Flambeaus. Enter _Page_. Page. Your Chair is ready, Madam. [She goes out led by _Fleet_. Hews. What think ye now, my Lords, of settling the Nation a little? I find my Head swim with Politicks, and what ye call ums. War. Wons, and wad ya settle the Nation when we real our selves? Hews. Who, pox, shall we stand making Childrens Shoes all the Year? No, no, let’s begin to settle the Nation, I say, and go thro-stitch with our Work. Duc. Right, we have no Head to obey; so that if this 397 _Scotch_ General do come whilst we Dogs fight for the Bone, he runs away with it. Hews. Shaw, we shall patch up matters with the _Scotch_ General, I’ll warrant you: However, here’s to our next Head—One and all. [All drink. Fleet. Verily, Sirs, this Health-drinking savoureth of Monarchy, and is a Type of Malignancy. War. Bread, my Lord, no preaching o’er yar Liquer, wee’s now for a Cup o’ th’ Creature. Cob. In a gadly way you may; it is lawful. Lam. Come, come, we’re dull, give us some Musick—come, my Lord, I’ll give you a Song, I love Musick as I do a Drum, there’s Life and Soul in’t, call my Musick. Fleet. Yea, I am for any Musick, except an Organ. War. Sbread, Sirs, and I’s for a Horn-pipe, I’ve a faud Theefe here shall dance ye Dance tol a Horn-pipe, with any States-man a ya aud. All. He, he, he.