Bac. What say you, Parson?—you have a forward Zeal.
Dun. I wish my Coat, Sir, did not hinder me from acting as becomes my Zeal and Duty.
Whim. A plaguy rugged Dog,—that Parson—
Bac. Fearless, seize me that canting Knave from out the Herd, and next those honourable Officers.
Points to Dull. Whim. Whiff, and Tim. Fearless seizes them, and gives them to the Soldiers, and takes the Proclamation from Dunce, and shews Bacon; they read it.
Dull. Seize us, Sir, you shall not need, we laid down our Commissions on purpose to come over to your Honour.
Whiff. We ever lov’d and honour’d your Honour.
Tim. So intirely, Sir—that I wish I were safe in James Town for your sake, and your Honour were hang’d. Aside.
Bac. This fine Piece is of your penning, Parson,—though it be countenanc’d by the Council’s Names.—Oh Ingratitude! Burn, burn the treacherous Town, fire it immediately.—
Whim. We’ll obey you, Sir.