Mrs. Whim. I hope, Sir, we shan’t be ravish’d in your Camp.

Dar. Fie, Mrs. Whimsey, do Soldiers use to ravish?

Mrs. Whiff. Ravish! marry, I fear ’em not, I’d have ’em know, I scorn to be ravish’d by any Man.

Fear. Ay, o’ my Conscience, Mrs. Whiff, you are too good-natur’d.

Dar. Madam, I hope you’ll give me leave to name Love to you, and try by all submissive ways to win your Heart.

Chris. Do your worst, Sir: I give you leave, if you assail me only with your Tongue.

Dar. That’s generous and brave, and I’ll requite it.

Enter Soldier in haste.

Sold. The Truce being ended, Sir, the Indians grow so insolent as to attack us even in our Camp, and have killed several of our Men.

Bac. ’Tis time to check their Boldness; Daring, haste, draw up our Men in order to give ’em Battel, I rather had expected their submission.

Exeunt, leading the Ladies.

ACT IV.

Scene I.

A Temple, with an Indian God placed upon it, Priests and Priestesses attending: Enter Indian King on one side attended by Indian Men; the Queen enters on the other with Women. All bow to the Idol, and divide on each side of the Stage. Then the Musick playing louder, the Priests and Priestesses dance about the Idol with ridiculous Postures, and crying (as for Incantations) thrice repeated, Agah Yerkin, Agah Boah, Sulen Tawarapah, Sulen Tawarapah.

After this soft Musick plays again: then they sing something fine: after which the Priests lead the King to the Altar, and the Priestesses the Queen; they take off little Crowns from their Heads, and offer them at the Altar.

King. Invoke the God of our Quiocto to declare what the Event shall be of this our last War against the English General. Soft Musick ceases.

The Musick changes to confused Tunes, to which the Priests and Priestesses dance, antickly singing between, the same Incantation as before; and then dance again, and so invoke again alternately: Which Dance ended, a Voice behind the Altar cries, while soft Musick plays,

King. I thank the Gods for taking care of us; prepare new Sacrifice against the Evening, when I return a Conqueror, I will my self perform the Office of a Priest.

Queen. Oh, Sir, I fear you’ll fall a Victim first.

King. What means Semernia? why are thy Looks so pale?

Queen. Alas, the Oracles have double meanings, their Sense is doubtful, and their Words Enigmas: I fear, Sir, I cou’d make a truer Interpretation.

King. How, Semernia! by all thy Love I charge thee, as you respect my Life, to let me know your Thoughts.

Queen. Last Night I dream’d a Lyon fell with hunger, spite of your Guards, slew you, and bore you hence.

King. This is thy Sex’s fear, and no Interpretation of the Oracle.

Queen. I cou’d convince you farther.

King. Hast thou a Secret thou canst keep from me? thy Soul a Thought that I must be a Stranger to? This is not like the Justice of Semernia: Come unriddle me the Oracle.

Queen. The English General shall be a Captive to his Enemy; he is so, Sir, already, to my Beauty, he says he languishes for Love of me.

King. Hah! the General my Rival—but go on—

Queen. And you from all your War be freed: Oh, let me not explain that fatal Line, for fear it mean, you shall be freed by Death.

King. What, when by my Hand the Foe shall bleed?—away—it cannot be—

Queen. No doubt, my Lord, you’ll bravely sell your Life, and deal some Wounds where you’ll receive so many.

King. ’Tis Love, Semernia, makes thee dream while waking:

I’ll trust the Gods, and am resolv’d for Battel.

Enter an Indian.

Ind. Haste, haste, great Sir, to Arms; Bacon with all his Forces is prepar’d, and both the Armies ready to engage.

King. Haste to my General, bid him charge ’em instantly; I’ll bring up the Supplies of stout Teroomians, those so well skill’d in the envenom’d Arrow. Ex. Indian.

—Semernia—Words but poorly do express the Griefs of parting Lovers—’tis with dying Eyes, and a Heart trembling—thus— Puts her Hand on his Heart.

they take a heavy leave;—one parting Kiss, and one Love pressing sigh, and then farewel:—but not a long farewel; I shall return victorious to thy Arms—commend me to the Gods, and still remember me. Exit.

Queen. Alas! What pity ’tis I saw the General, before my Fate had given me to the King—But now—like those that change their Gods, my faithless Mind betwixt my two Opinions wavers; while to the Gods my Monarch I commend; my wandring Thoughts in pity of the General makes that Zeal cold, declin’d—ineffectual.—If for the General I implore the Deities, methinks my Prayers should not ascend the Skies, since Honour tells me ’tis an impious Zeal.

Goes in. All exeunt.

Scene II.

Shows a Field of Tents, seen at some distance through the Trees of a Wood, Drums, Trumpets and the noise of Battel, with hollowing. The Indians are seen with Battel-Axes to retreat fighting from the English, and all go off; when they re-enter immediately beating back the English, the Indian King at the head of his Men, with Bows and Arrows; Daring being at the head of the English: They fight off; the Noise continues less loud as more at distance.

Enter Bacon with his Sword drawn, meets Fearless with his Sword drawn.

Fear. Haste, haste, Sir, to the Entrance of the Wood, Daring’s engaged past hope of a Retreat, venturing too far, pursuing of the Foe; the King in Ambush, with his poison’d Archers, fell on, and now we are dangerously distrest.

Bac. Daring is brave, but he’s withal too rash, come on and follow me to his Assistance— Go out.

A hollowing within, the Fight renews; enter the Indians beaten back by Bacon, Daring and Fearless; they fight off; the noise of Fighting continues a while, this still behind the Wood.

Enter Indians flying over the Stage, pursued by the King.

King. Turn, turn, ye fugitive Slaves, and face the Enemy; Oh Villains, Cowards, deaf to all Command: by Heaven, I had my Rival in my view, and aim’d at nothing but my conquering him—now like a Coward I must fly with Cowards, or like a desperate Madman fall, thus singly, midst the numbers. Follows the Indians.

Enter Bacon inraged with his Sword drawn, Fearless and Daring following him.

Bac. —Where is the King, oh ye perfidious Slaves? how, have you hid him from my just Revenge?—search all the Brakes, the Furzes and the Trees, and let him not escape on pain of Death.

Dar. We cannot do wonders, Sir.

Bac. But you can run away.—

Dar. Yes, when we see occasion—yet—shou’d any but my General tell me so—by Heaven, he should find I were no starter.

Bac. Forgive me, I’m mad—the King’s escaped, hid like a trembling Slave in some close Ditch, where he will sooner starve than fight it out.

Re-enter Indians running over the Stage, pursued by the King, who shoots them as they fly; some few follow him.

King. All’s lost—the Day is lost—and I’m betray’d;—Oh Slaves, that even Wounds can’t animate. In Rage.

Bac. The King!

King. The General here! by all the Powers, betray’d by my own Men!

Bac. Abandon’d as thou art, I scorn to take thee basely; you shall have Soldiers chance, Sir, for your Life, since Chance so luckily has brought us hither; without more Aids we will dispute the Day: This Spot of Earth bears both our Armies Fates; I’ll give you back the Victory I have won, and thus begin a-new on equal Terms.

King. That’s nobly said!—the Powers have heard my Wish. You, Sir, first taught me how to use a Sword, which heretofore has served me with Success: But now—’tis for Semernia that it draws, a Prize more valued than my Kingdom, Sir—

Bac. Hah, Semernia!

King. Your Blushes do betray your Passion for her.

Dar. ’Sdeath, have we fought for this, to expose the Victor to the conquer’d Foe?

Fear. What, fight a single Man—our Prize already.

King. Not so, young Man, while I command a Dart.

Bac. Fight him! by Heaven, no reason shall dissuade me, and he that interrupts me is a Coward; whatever be my Fate, I do command ye to let the King pass freely to his Tents.

Dar. The Devil’s in the General.

Fear. ’Sdeath, his Romantick Humour will undo us. They fight and pause.

King. You fight as if you meant to outdo me this way, as you have done in Generosity.

Bac. You’re not behind-hand with me, Sir, in courtesy: Come, here’s to set us even— Fight again.

King. You bleed apace.

Bac. You’ve only breath’d a Vein, and given me new Health and Vigour by it.

They fight again, Wounds on both sides, the King staggers; Bacon takes him in his Arms; the King drops his Sword.

How do you, Sir?

King. Like one—that’s hovering between Heaven and Earth; I’m—mounting—somewhere—upwards—but giddy with my flight,—I know not where.

King. Oh, Semernia, how much more Truth had thy Divinity than the Predictions of the flattering Oracles! Commend me to her—I know you’ll—visit—your fair Captive, Sir, and tell her—oh—but Death prevents the rest. Dies.

Enter Fearless.

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.

Tim. I’m in the posture of the times, Major—I cou’d not be idle where so much Action was; I’m going to present my self to the General, with these Trophies of my Victory here—

Dull. Victory—what Victory—did not I see thee creeping out of yonder Bush, where thou wert hid all the Fight—stumble on a dead Indian, and take away his Arms?

Tim. Why, didst thou see me?

Dull. See thee, ay—and what a fright thou wert in, till thou wert sure he was dead.

Tim. Well, well, that’s all one—Gads zoors, if every Man that passes for valiant in a Battel, were to give an account how he gained his Reputation, the World wou’d be but thinly stock’d with Heroes; I’ll say he was a great War-Captain, and that I kill’d him hand to hand, and who can disprove me?

Dull. Disprove thee—why, that pale Face of thine, that has so much of the Coward in’t.

Tim. Shaw, that’s with loss of Blood—Hah, I am overheard I doubt—who’s yonder— Sees Whim. and Whiff. how, Brother Whiff in a Hempen Cravat-string?

Whim. He call’d the General Traitor, and was running away, and I’m resolv’d to peach.

Dull. Hum—and one Witness will stand good in Law, in case of Treason—

Tim. Gads zoors, in case of Treason, he’ll be hang’d if it be proved against him, were there ne’er a Witness at all; but he must be tried by a Council of War, Man—Come, come, let’s disarm him—

They take away his Arms, and pull a Bottle of Brandy out of his Pocket.

Whiff. What, I hope you will not take away my Brandy, Gentlemen, my last comfort.

Tim. Gads zoors, it’s come in good time—we’ll drink it off, here, Major— Drinks, Whiff takes him aside.

Whiff. Hark ye, Cornet—you are my good Friend, get this matter made up before it come to the General.

Tim. But this is Treason, Neighbour.

Whiff. If I hang—I’ll declare upon the Ladder how you kill’d your War-Captain.

Tim. Come, Brother Whimsey—we have been all Friends and loving Magistrates together, let’s drink about, and think no more of this Business.

Dull. Ay, ay, if every sober Man in the Nation should be called to account of the Treason he speaks in’s Drink, the Lord have mercy upon us all.—Put it up—and let us, like loving Brothers, take an honest Resolution to run away together; for this same Frightall minds nothing but Fighting.

Whim. I’m content, provided we go all to the Council, and tell them (to make our Peace) we went in obedience to the Proclamation, to kill Bacon, but the Traitor was so strongly guarded we could not effect it: but mum—who’s here?—

To them, enter Ranter and Jenny, as Man and Footman.

Ran. Hah, our four reverend Justices—I hope the Blockheads will not know me—Gentlemen, can you direct me to Lieutenant General Daring’s Tents?

Whiff. Hum, who the Devil’s this?—that’s he you see coming this way. ’Sdeath, yonder’s Daring—let’s slip away before he advances.

Exeunt all but Ran. and Jen.

Jen. I am scar’d with those dead Bodies we have pass’d over; for God’s sake, Madam, let me know your design in coming.

Ran. Why, now I tell thee—my damn’d mad Fellow Daring, who has my Heart and Soul, loves Chrisante, has stolen her, and carried her away to his Tents; she hates him, while I am dying for him.

Jem. Dying, Madam! I never saw you melancholy.

Ran. Pox on’t, no; why should I sigh and whine, and make my self an Ass, and him conceited? no, instead of snivelling I am resolved—

Jen. What, Madam?

Ran. Gad, to beat the Rascal, and bring off Chrisante.

Jen. Beat him, Madam! what, a Woman beat a Lieutenant-General?

Ran. Hang ’em, they get a name in War from Command, not Courage; but how know I but I may fight? Gad, I have known a Fellow kick’d from one end of the Town to t’other, believing himself a Coward; at last forced to fight, found he could; got a Reputation, and bullied all he met with; and got a Name, and a great Commission.

Jen. But if he should kill you, Madam.

Ran. I’ll take care to make it as comical a Duel as the best of ’em; as much in love as I am, I do not intend to die its Martyr.

Enter Daring and Fearless.

Fear. Have you seen Chrisante since the Fight?

Dar. Yes, but she is still the same, as nice and coy as Fortune when she’s courted by the wretched; yet she denies me so obligingly, she keeps my Love still in its humble Calm.

Ran. Can you direct me, Sir, to one Daring’s Tent? Sullenly.

Dar. One Daring!—he has another Epithet to his Name.

Ran. What’s that, Rascal, or Coward?

Dar. Hah, which of thy Stars, young Man, has sent thee hither, to find that certain Fate they have decreed?

Ran. I know not what my Stars have decreed, but I shall be glad if they have ordain’d me to fight with Daring:—by thy concern thou shou’dst be he?

Dar. I am, prithee who art thou?

Ran. Thy Rival, though newly arrived from England, and came to marry fair Chrisante, whom thou hast ravish’d, for whom I hear another Lady dies.

Dar. Dies for me?

Ran. Therefore resign her fairly—or fight me fairly—

Dar. Come on, Sir—but hold—before I kill thee, prithee inform me who this dying Lady is?

Ran. Sir, I owe ye no Courtesy, and therefore will do you none by telling you—come, Sir, for Chrisante—draw. They offer to fight, Fearless steps in.

Fear. Hold—what mad Frolick’s this?—Sir, you fight for one you never saw to Ranter. and you for one that loves you not. To Dar.

Dar. Perhaps she’ll love him as little.

Ran. Gad, put it to the Trial, if you dare—if thou be’st generous, bring me to her, and whom she does neglect shall give the other place.

Dar. That’s fair, put up thy Sword—I’ll bring thee to her instantly.

Exeunt.

  Scene III. A Tent. 

Enter Chrisante and Surelove.

Chris. I’m not so much afflicted for my Confinement, as I am that I cannot hear of Friendly.

Sure. Art not persecuted with Daring?

Chris. Not at all; though he tells me daily of his Passion, I rally him, and give him neither Hope nor Despair,—he’s here.

Enter Daring, Fear. Rant. and Jenny.

Dar. Madam, the Complaisance I show in bringing you my Rival, will let you see how glad I am to oblige you every way.

Ran. I hope the Danger I have exposed my self to for the Honour of kissing your Hand, Madam, will render me something acceptable—here are my Credentials— Gives her a Letter.

Chrisante reads.

Dear Creature, I have taken this Habit to free you from an impertinent Lover, and to secure the damn’d Rogue Daring to my self: receive me as sent by Colonel Surelove from England to marry you—favour me—no more—

Yours, Ranter.

—Hah, Ranter? Aside. —Sir, you have too good a Character from my Cousin Colonel Surelove, not to receive my Welcome. Gives Surelove the Letter.

Ran. Stand by, General—

Pushes away Daring, looks big, and takes Chrisante by the Hand, and kisses it.

Dar. ’Sdeath, Sir, there’s room enough—at first sight so kind! Oh Youth, Youth and Impudence, what Temptations are you to Villanous Woman?

Chris. I confess, Sir, we Women do not love these rough fighting Fellows, they’re always scaring us with one Broil or other.

Dar. Much good may it do you with your tame Coxcomb.

Ran. Well, Sir, then you yield the Prize?

Dar. Ay, Gad, were she an Angel, that can prefer such a callow Fop as thou before a Man—take her and domineer. They all laugh.

—’Sdeath, am I grown ridiculous?

Fear. Why hast thou not found the Jest? by Heaven, ’tis Ranter, ’tis she that loves you; carry on the humour. Aside.

Faith, Sir, if I were you, I wou’d devote my self to Madam Ranter.

Chris. Ay, she’s the fittest Wife for you, she’ll fit your Humour.

Dar. Ranter—Gad, I’d sooner marry a she-Bear, unless for a Penance for some horrid Sin; we should be eternally challenging one another to the Field, and ten to one she beats me there; or if I should escape there, she wou’d kill me with drinking.

Ran. Here’s a Rogue—does your Country abound with such Ladies?

Dar. The Lord forbid, half a dozen wou’d ruin the Land, debauch all the Men, and scandalize all the Women.

Fear. No matter, she’s rich.

Dar. Ay, that will make her insolent.

Fear. Nay, she’s generous too.

Dar. Yes, when she’s drunk, and then she’ll lavish all.

Ran. A pox on him, how he vexes me.

Dar. Then such a Tongue—she’ll rail and smoke till she choke again; then six Gallons of Punch hardly recovers her, and never but then is she good-natur’d.

Ran. I must lay him on—

Dar. There’s not a Blockhead in the Country that has not—

Ran. What—

Dar. Been drunk with her.

Ran. I thought you had meant something else, Sir. In huff.

Dar. Nay—as for that—I suppose there is no great difficulty.

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.

Tim. Me—’twas the Major’s Ambition here—to make himself a great Man with the Council again.

Dull. Pox o’ this Ambition, it has been the ruin of many a gallant Fellow.

Whiff. If I get home again, the height of mine shall be to top Tobacco; would I’d some Brandy.

Tim. Gads zoors, would we had, ’tis the best Armour against Fear—hum—I hear no body now—prithee advance a little.

Whim. What, before a Horse-Officer?

Friend. Stand, on your Lives—

Tim. Oh, ’tis impossible—I’m dead already.

Friend. What are ye?—speak—or I’ll shoot.

Whim. Friends to thee,—who the Devil are we Friends to?

Tim. E’en who please you, Gad zoors.

Friend. Hah—Gad zoors—who’s there, Timorous?

Tim. Hum—I know no such Scoundrel— Gets behind.

Dull. Hah—that’s Friendly’s Voice.

Friend. Right—thine’s that of Dullman—who’s with you?

Dull. Only Timorous, Whimsey and Whiff, all valiantly running away from the Arch-Rebel that took us Prisoners.

Haz. Can you inform us where the Ladies are lodg’d?

Dull. In the hither Quarter, in Daring’s Tent; you’ll know them by Lanthorns on every corner—there was never better time to surprize them—for this day Daring’s married, and there’s nothing but Dancing and Drinking.

Haz. Married! to whom?

Dull. That I ne’er enquir’d.

Friend. ’Tis to Chrisante, Friend—and the Reward of my Attempt is lost. Oh, I am mad, I’ll fight away my Life, and my Despair shall yet do greater Wonders, than even my Love could animate me to. Let’s part our Men, and beset his Tents on both sides. Friendly goes out with a Party.

Haz. Come, Gentlemen, let’s on—

Whiff. On, Sir,—we on, Sir?—

Haz. Ay, you on, Sir—to redeem the Ladies.

Whiff. Oh, Sir, I am going home for Money to redeem my Nancy.

Whim. So am I, Sir.

Tim. I thank my Stars I am a Batchelor.—Why, what a Plague is a Wife?

Haz. Will you march forward?

Dull. We have atchiev’d Honour enough already, in having made our Campaign here— Looking big.

Haz. ’Sdeath, but you shall go—put them in the front, and prick them on—if they offer to turn back, run them thro.

Tim. Oh, horrid— The Soldiers prick them on with their Swords.

Whiff. Oh, Nancy, thy Dream will yet come to pass.

Haz. Will you advance, Sir? Pricks Whiff.

Whiff. Why, so we do, Sir; the Devil’s in these fighting Fellows. Exeunt.

An Alarm at a distance.

Within. To Arms, to Arms, the Enemy’s upon us.

A Noise of Fighting, after which enters Friendly with his Party, retreating and fighting from Daring and some Soldiers, Ranter fighting like a Fury by his side, he putting her back in vain; they fight out. Re-enter Daring and Friendly all bloody. Several Soldiers enter with Flambeaux.

Dar. Now, Sir—what Injury have I ever done you, that you should use this Treachery against me?

Friend. To take advantage any way in War, was never counted Treachery—and had I murder’d thee, I had not paid thee half the Debt I owe thee.

Dar. You bleed too much to hold too long a Parley— come to my Tent, I’ll take a charitable care of thee.

Friend. I scorn thy Courtesy, who against all the Laws of Honour and of Justice, hast ravish’d innocent Ladies.

Dar. Sir, your upbraiding of my Honour shall never make me forfeit it, or esteem you less—Is there a Lady here you have a Passion for?

Friend. Yes, on a nobler score than thou darest own.

Dar. To let you see how you’re mistaken, Sir, whoe’er that Lady be whom you affect, I will resign, and give you both your Freedoms.

Friend. Why, for this Courtesy, which shews thee brave, in the next fight I’ll save thy Life to quit the Obligation.

Dar. I thank you, Sir;—come to my Tent,—and when we’ve dress’d your Wounds, and yielded up the Ladies, I’ll give you my Pass-port for your Safe-Conduct back, and tell your Friends i’th’ Town, we’ll visit them i’th’ Morning.

Friend. They’ll meet you on your way, Sir—

Dar. Come, my young Soldier, now thou’st won my Soul. Exeunt.

An Alarm beats: Enter at another Passage Boozer with all the Ladies; they pass over the Stage, while Hazard and Downright beat back a Party of Soldiers. Dull. Tim. Whim. and Whiff, prick’d on by their Party to fight, lay about them like Madmen. Bacon, Fearless and Daring come in, rescue their Men, and fight out the other Party, some falling dead. Bacon, Fearless and Daring return tired, with their Swords drawn. Enter Soldier running.

Sold. Return, Sir, where your Sword will be more useful—a Party of Indians, taking advantage of the Night, have set fire on your Tents, and borne away the Queen.

Bac. Hah, the Queen! By Heaven, this Victory shall cost them dear; come, let us fly to rescue her.

All go out.

  Scene II. Changes to Wellman’s Tent. 

Enter Wellman, Brag, Grubb, and Officers.

Well. I cannot sleep, my Impatience is so great to engage this haughty Enemy, before they have reposed their weary Limbs—Is not yon ruddy Light the Morning’s dawn?

Brag. ’Tis, and please your Honour.

Well. Is there no News of Friendly yet, and Hazard?

Brag. Not yet—’tis thought they left the Camp to night, with some design against the Enemy.

Well. What Men have they?

Brag. Only Boozer’s Party, Sir.

Well. I know they are brave, and mean to surprize me with some handsome Action.

Enter Friendly.

Friend. I ask a thousand Pardons, Sir, for quitting the Camp without your leave.

Well. Your conduct and your Courage cannot err; I see thou’st been in action by thy Blood.

Friend. Sir, I’m ashamed to own these slender Wounds, since without more my luck was to be taken, while Hazard did alone effect the Business, the rescuing of the Ladies.

Well. How got ye Liberty?

Friend. By Daring’s Generosity, who sends ye word he’ll visit you this Morning.

Well. We are prepared to meet him.

Enter Down. Hazard, Ladies, Whim. Whiff, Dullman, Tim. looking big. Well. embraces Down.

Well. My worthy Friend, how am I joyed to see you?

Down. We owe our Liberties to these brave Youths, who can do Wonders when they fight for Ladies.

Tim. With our assistance, Ladies.

Whim. For my part I’ll not take it as I have done; Gad, I find, when I am damnable angry, I can beat both Friend and Foe.

Whiff. When I fight for my Nancy here—adsfish, I’m a Dragon.

Mrs. Whiff. Lord, you need not have been so hasty.

Friend. Do not upbraid me with your Eyes, Chrisante; but let these Wounds assure you I endeavour’d to serve you, though Hazard had the Honour on’t.

Well. But, Ladies, we’ll not expose you in the Camp,—a Party of our Men shall see you safely conducted to Madam Surelove’s; ’tis but a little Mile from our Camp.

Friend. Let me have that honour, Sir.

Chris. No, I conjure you let your Wounds be dress’d; obey me if you love me, and Hazard shall conduct us home.

Well. He had the Toil, ’tis fit he have the Recompence.

Whiff. He the Toil, Sir! what, did we stand for Cyphers?

Whim. The very appearance I made in the front of the Battel, aw’d the Enemy.

Tim. Ay, ay, let the Enemy say how I maul’d ’em—but Gads zoors, I scorn to brag.

Well. Since you’ve regain’d your Honour so gloriously, I restore you to your Commands you lost by your seeming Cowardice.

Dull. Valour is not always in humour, Sir.

Well. Come, Gentlemen, since they’ve resolv’d to engage us, let’s set our Men in order to receive ’em. Exeunt all but the four Justices.

Tim. Our Commissions again—you must be bragging, and see what comes on’t; I was modest ye see, and said nothing of my Prowess.

Whiff. What a Devil does the Colonel think we are made of Iron, continually to be beat on the Anvil?

Whim. Look, Gentlemen, here’s two Evils—if we go we are dead Men; if we stay we are hang’d—and that will disorder my Cravat-string:—therefore the least Evil is to go—and set a good Face on the Matter, as I do—

Goes out singing. All exeunt.

  Scene III. A thick Wood. 

Enter Queen dress’d like an Indian Man, with a Bow in her Hand, and Quiver at her Back; Anaria her Confident disguis’d so too; and about a dozen Indians led by Cavaro.

Queen. I tremble yet, dost think we’re safe, Cavaro?

Cav. Madam, these Woods are intricate and vast, and ’twill be difficult to find us out—or if they do, this Habit will secure you from the fear of being taken.

Queen. Dost think if Bacon find us, he will not know me? Alas, my Fears and Blushes will betray me.

Ana. ’Tis certain, Madam, if we stay we perish; for all the Wood’s surrounded by the Conqueror.

Queen. Alas, ’tis better we should perish here, than stay to expect the Violence of his Passion, to which my Heart’s too sensibly inclin’d.

Ana. Why do you not obey its Dictates then? why do you fly the Conqueror?

Queen. Not fly—not fly the Murderer of my Lord?

Ana. What World, what Resolution can preserve you? and what he cannot gain by soft submission, Force will at last o’ercome.

Queen. I wish there were in Nature one excuse, either by Force or Reason to compel me:—For Oh, Anaria—I adore this General;—take from my Soul a Truth—till now conceal’d—at twelve Years old—at the Pauwomungian Court, I saw this Conqueror. I saw him young and gay as new-born Spring, glorious and charming as the Mid-day’s Sun; I watch’d his Looks, and listned when he spoke, and thought him more than mortal.

Ana. He has a graceful Form.

Queen. At last a fatal Match concluded was between my Lord and me; I gave my Hand, but oh, how far my Heart was from consenting, the angry Gods are Witness.

Ana. ’Twas pity.

Queen. Twelve tedious Moons I pass’d in silent Languishment; Honour endeavouring to destroy my Love, but all in vain; for still my Pain return’d whenever I beheld my Conqueror; but now when I consider him as Murderer of my Lord— Fiercely. I sigh and wish—some other fatal Hand had given him his Death.—But now there’s a necessity, I must be brave and overcome my Heart; What if I do? ah, whither shall I fly? I have no Amazonian Fire about me, all my Artillery is Sighs and Tears, the Earth my Bed, and Heaven my Canopy. Weeps. After Noise of Fighting.

Hah, we are surpriz’d; Oh, whither shall I fly? And yet methinks a certain trembling Joy, spite of my Soul, spite of my boasted Honour, runs shivering round my Heart.

Enter an Indian.

Ind. Madam, your Out-guards are surpriz’d by Bacon, who hews down all before him, and demands the Queen with such a Voice, and Eyes so fierce and angry, he kills us with his Looks.

Cav. Draw up your poison’d Arrows to the head, and aim them at his Heart, sure some will hit.

Queen. Cruel Cavaro,—wou’d ’twere fit for me to contradict thy Justice. Aside.

Bac. Within. The Queen, ye Slaves, give me the Queen, and live!

He enters furiously, beating back some Indians; Cavaro’s Party going to shoot, the Queen runs in.

Queen. Hold, hold, I do command ye.

Bacon flies on ’em as they shoot and miss him, fights like a Fury, and wounds the Queen in the Disorder; beats them all out.

—hold thy commanding Hand, and do not kill me, who wou’d not hurt thee to regain my Kingdom— He snatches her in his Arms, she reels.

Bac. Hah—a Woman’s Voice,—what art thou? Oh my Fears!

Queen. Thy Hand has been too cruel to a Heart—whose Crime was only tender Thoughts for thee.

Bac. The Queen! What is’t my sacrilegious Hand has done!

Queen. The noblest Office of a gallant Friend, thou’st sav’d my Honour, and hast given me Death.

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.

Whim. What will you confess? we were only going behind yon Hedge to untruss a point; that’s all.

Whiff. Ay, your Honours will smell out the truth, if you keep us here long.

Dar. Here, carry them Prisoners to my Tent. Ex. Soldiers with Whim. and Whiff.

Enter Ranter without a Hat, and Sword drawn, Daring angrily goes the other way.

Ran. A pox of all ill luck, how came I to lose Daring in the fight? Ha—who’s here? Dullman and Timorous dead—the Rogues are Counterfeits.—I’ll see what Moveables they have about them, all’s lawful Prize in War. Takes their Money, Watches and Rings; goes out.

Tim. What, rob the dead?—why, what will this villanous World come to? Clashing of Swords, just as they were going to rise.

Enter Hazard bringing in Ranter.

Haz. Thou cou’dst expect no other Fate, young Man; thy Hands are yet too tender for a Sword.

Ran. Thou look’st like a good-natur’d Fellow, use me civilly, and Daring shall ransom me.

Haz. Doubt not a generous Treatment. They go out.

Dull. So the Coast is clear, I desire to move my Quarters to some place of more safety— They rise and go off.

Enter Wellman and Soldiers hastily.

Well. ’Twas this way Bacon fled. Five hundred Pound for him who finds the Rebel.

Go out.

  Scene IV. Changes to another part of the Wood. 

Enter Bacon and Fearless with their Swords drawn, all bloody.

Bac. ’Tis just, ye Gods! that when ye took the Prize for which I fought, Fortune and you should all abandon me.

Fear. Oh, fly, Sir, to some place of safe retreat, for there’s no mercy to be hop’d if taken. What will you do? I know we are pursu’d, by Heaven, I will not die a shameful Death.

Bac. Oh, they’ll have pity on thy Youth and Bravery, but I’m above their Pardon. A noise is heard.

Within. This way—this way—hay halloo.

Fear. Alas, Sir, we’re undone—I’ll see which way they take. Exit.

Bac. So near! Nay, then to my last shift. Undoes the Pomel of his Sword.

Come, my good Poison, like that of Hannibal; long I have born a noble Remedy for all the Ills of Life. Takes Poison.

I have too long surviv’d my Queen and Glory, those two bright Stars that influenc’d my Life are set to all Eternity. Lies down.

Enter Fearless, runs to Bacon, and looks on his Sword.

Fear. —Hah—what have ye done?

Bac. Secur’d my self from being a publick Spectacle upon the common Theatre of Death.

Enter Daring and Soldiers.

Dar. Victory, Victory! they fly, they fly, where’s the victorious General?

Fear. Here,—taking his last Adieu.

Dar. Dying! Then wither all the Laurels on my Brows, for I shall never triumph more in War; where are the Wounds?

Fear. From his own Hand, by what he carried here, believing we had lost the Victory.

Bac. And is the Enemy put to flight, my Hero? Grasps his Neck.