_Bac._ Is’t possible! ye unregarding Gods, is’t possible? _Queen._ Now I may love you without Infamy, and please my dying Heart by gazing on you. _Bac._ Oh, I am lost--for ever lost--I find my Brain turn with the wild confusion. _Queen._ I faint--oh, lay me gently on the Earth. [Lays her down. _Bac._ Who waits-- [Turns in Rage to his Men. Make of the Trophies of the War a Pile, and set it all on fire, that I may leap into consuming Flames--while all my Tents are burning round about me. [Wildly. Oh thou dear Prize, for which alone I toil’d! [Weeps, and lies down by her. Enter _Fearless_ with his Sword drawn. _Fear._ Hah, on the Earth--how do you, Sir? _Bac._ What wou’dst thou? _Fear._ _Wellman_ with all the Forces he can gather, attacks us even in our very Camp; assist us, Sir, or all is lost. _Bac._ Why, prithee let him make the World his Prize, I have no business with the Trifle now; it contains nothing that’s worth my care, since my fair Queen--is dead--and by my hand. _Queen._ So charming and obliging is thy Moan, that I cou’d wish for Life to recompense it; but oh, Death falls--all cold upon my Heart, like Mildews on the Blossoms. _Fear._ By Heaven, Sir, this Love will ruin all--rise, rise, and save us yet. _Bac._ Leave me, what e’er becomes of me--lose not thy share of Glory--prithee leave me. _Queen._ Alas, I fear thy Fate is drawing on, and I shall shortly meet thee in the Clouds; till then--farewel--even Death is pleasing to me, while thus--I find it in thy Arms-- [Dies. _Bac._ There ends my Race of Glory and of Life. [An Alarm at distance--continues a while. _Bac._ Hah--Why should I idly whine away my Life, since there are nobler ways to meet with Death? Up, up, and face him then--Hark--there’s the Soldier’s Knell--and all the Joys of Life--with thee I bid farewel-- [Goes out. The _Indians_ bear off the Body of the _Queen_. The Alarm continues: Enter _Downright_, _Wellman_, and others, Swords drawn. _Well._ They fight like Men possest--I did not think to have found them so prepar’d. _Down._ They’ve good Intelligence--but where’s the Rebel? _Well._ Sure he’s not in the Fight; Oh, that it were my happy chance to meet him, that while our Men look on, we might dispatch the business of the War--Come, let’s fall in again, now we have taken breath. [They go out. Enter _Daring_ and _Fearless_ hastily, with their Swords drawn; meet _Whim._ _Whiff_, with their Swords drawn, running away. _Dar._ How now, whither away? [In anger. _Whim._ Hah, _Daring_ here--we are pursuing of the Enemy, Sir; stop us not in the pursuit of Glory. [Offers to go. _Dar._ Stay!--I have not seen you in my Ranks to day. _Whiff._ Lord, does your Honour take us for Starters? _Fear._ Yes, Sirrah, and believe you are now rubbing off--confess, or I’ll run you through. _Whiff._ Oh, mercy, Sir, mercy, we’ll confess.