Enter Page.
Page. Your Chair is ready, Madam.
[She goes out led by Fleet.
Hews. What think ye now, my Lords, of settling the Nation a little? I find my Head swim with Politicks, and what ye call ums.
War. Wons, and wad ya settle the Nation [when we real] our selves?
Hews. Who, pox, shall we stand making Childrens Shoes all the Year? No, no, let’s begin to settle the Nation, I say, and go thro-stitch with our Work.
Duc. Right, we have no Head to obey; so that if this Scotch General do come whilst we Dogs fight for the Bone, he runs away with it.
Hews. Shaw, we shall patch up matters with the Scotch General, I’ll warrant you: However, here’s to our next Head—One and all. [All drink.
Fleet. Verily, Sirs, this Health-drinking savoureth of Monarchy, and is a Type of Malignancy.
War. Bread, my Lord, no preaching [o’er yar Liquer], wee’s now for a Cup o’ th’ Creature.