_Bac._ He’s gone--and now, like _Cæsar_, I could weep over the Hero I my self destroyed. _Fear._ I’m glad for your repose I see him there--’twas a mad hot-brain’d Youth, and so he died. _Bac._ Come bear him on your Shoulders to my Tent, from whence with all the solemn State we can, we will convey him to his own Pavilion. Enter a _Soldier_. _Sold._ Some of our Troops pursuing of the Enemy even to their Temples, which they made their Sanctuary, finding the Queen at her Devotion there with all her _Indian_ Ladies, I’d much ado to stop their violent Rage from setting fire to the holy Pile. _Bac._ Hang ‘em immediately that durst attempt it, while I my self will fly to rescue her. [Goes out, they bear off the _King’s_ Body; Ex. all. Enter _Whimsey_, pulling in _Whiff_, with a Halter about his Neck. _Whim._ Nay, I’m resolved to keep thee here till his Honour the General comes.--What, to call him Traitor, and run away after he had so generously given us our freedom, and listed us Cadees for the next Command that fell in his Army--I’m resolved to hang thee-- _Whiff._ Wilt thou betray and peach thy Friend? thy Friend that kept thee Company all the while thou wert a Prisoner--drinking at my own charge-- _Whim._ No matter for that, I scorn Ingratitude, and therefore will hang thee--but as for thy drinking with me--I scorn to be behind-hand with thee in Civility, and therefore here’s to thee. [Takes a Bottle of Brandy out of his Pocket, Drinks. _Whiff._ I can’t drink. _Whim._ A certain sign thou wo’t be hang’d. _Whiff._ You us’d to be o’ my side when a Justice, let the Cause be how it wou’d. [Weeps. _Whim._ Ay--when I was a Justice I never minded Honesty, but now I’ll be true to my General, and hang thee to be a great Man.-- _Whiff._ If I might but have a fair Trial for my Life-- _Whim._ A fair Trial!--come, I’ll be thy Judge--and if thou canst clear thy self by Law, I’ll acquit thee: Sirrah, Sirrah, what canst thou say for thy self for calling his Honour Rebel? [Sits on a Drum-head. _Whiff._ ‘T was when I was drunk, an’t like your Honour. _Whim._ That’s no Plea; for if you kill a Man when you are sober, you must be hanged when you are drunk. Hast thou any thing else to say for thy self why Sentence may not pass upon thee? _Whiff._ I desire the Benefit of the Clergy. _Whim._ The Clergy! I never knew any body that ever did benefit by ‘em; why, thou canst not read a word. _Whiff._ Transportation then-- _Whim._ It shall be to _England_ then--but hold--who’s this? [_Dullman_ creeping from a Bush. _Dull._ So the Danger’s over, I may venture out--Pox on’t, I wou’d not be in this fear again, to be Lord Chief Justice of our Court. Why, how now, Cornet?--what, in dreadful Equipage? Your Battle-Ax bloody, with Bow and Arrows. Enter _Timorous_ with Battle-Ax, Bow and Arrows, and Feathers on his Head.