Hew. So, Brethren in Iniquity, we have spun a fine Thred, the Rump’s all in all now, rules the Roast, and has sent for the General with Scissers and Rasor.
Whit. With a [Sisseraro], you mean.
Hew. None of your Terms in Law, good Brother.
War. Right; but gen ya have any Querks in Law, Mr. Lyar, that will save our Crags, ’twill be warth a Fee.
Duc. We have plaid our Cards fair.
War. I’s deny that; [Wans, Sirs], ya plaid ’em faul; a Fule had the shooftling of’em, and the Muckle Diel himself turn up Trump.
Whit. We are lost, Gentlemen, utterly lost; who the Devil wou’d have thought of a Dissolution?
Hews. Is there no Remedy?
Duc. Death, I’ll to the Scotch General; turn but in time as many greater Rogues than I have done, and ’twill save my Stake yet—Farewel, Gentlemen.
Des. No Remedy?