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.
The Country now may see what they’re to fear,