Dull. So the Danger’s over, I may venture out—Pox on’t, I wou’d not be in this fear again, to be Lord Chief Justice of our Court. Why, how now, Cornet?—what, in dreadful Equipage? Your Battle-Ax bloody, with Bow and Arrows.
Enter Timorous with Battle-Ax, Bow and Arrows, and Feathers on his Head.
Tim. I’m in the posture of the times, Major—I cou’d not be idle where so much Action was; I’m going to present my self to the General, with these Trophies of my Victory here—
Dull. Victory—what Victory—did not I see thee creeping out of yonder Bush, where thou wert hid all the Fight—stumble on a dead Indian, and take away his Arms?
Tim. Why, didst thou see me?
Dull. See thee, ay—and what a fright thou wert in, till thou wert sure he was dead.
Tim. Well, well, that’s all one—Gads zoors, if every Man that passes for valiant in a Battel, were to give an account how he gained his Reputation, the World wou’d be but thinly stock’d with Heroes; I’ll say he was a great War-Captain, and that I kill’d him hand to hand, and who can disprove me?
Dull. Disprove thee—why, that pale Face of thine, that has so much of the Coward in’t.
Tim. Shaw, that’s with loss of Blood—Hah, I am overheard I doubt—who’s yonder— Sees Whim. and Whiff. how, Brother Whiff in a Hempen Cravat-string?
Whim. He call’d the General Traitor, and was running away, and I’m resolv’d to peach.