_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. _Well._ I know ye well--you’re all rank Cowards; but once more we forgive ye; your Places in the Council shall be supplied by these Gentlemen of Sense and Honour. The Governor when he comes, shall find the Country in better hands than he expects to find it.