_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.