Cor. He understood not Soldier’s Dialect; the Language of the Sword puzzled his Understanding; the Keenness of which was too sharp for his Wit, and over-rul’d his Robes—therefore he very mannerly kiss’d his Hand, and wheel’d about—
2 Sold. To the place from whence he came.
Cor. And e’er long to the place of Execution.
1 Sold. No, damn him, he’ll have his Clergy.
Joy. Why, is he such an Infidel to love the Clergy?
Cor. For his Ends; but come let’s go drink the General’s Health, Lambert; not Fleetwood, that Son of a Custard, always quaking.
2 Sold. Ay, ay, Lambert I say—besides, he’s a Gentleman.
Felt. Come, come, Brother Soldier, let me tell you, I fear you have a Stewart in your Belly.
Cor. I am sure you have a Rogue in your Heart, Sirrah, which a Man may perceive thro that sanctified Dog’s Face of yours; and so get ye gone, ye Rascals, and delude the Rabble with your canting Politicks. [Every one beats ’em.
Felt. Nay, an you be in Wrath, I’ll leave you.