Tim. Ay, and good reason too: Gad zoors, there may be Rogues hid—prithee, Major, do thou advance.
Dull. No, no, go on—no matter of Ceremony in these cases of running away. They advance.
Friend. They approach directly to us, we cannot escape them—their numbers are not great—let us advance. They come up to them.
Tim. Oh! I am annihilated.
Whiff. Some of Frightall’s Scouts, we are lost Men. They push each other foremost.
Friend. Who goes there?
Whim. Oh, they’ll give us no Quarter; ’twas long of you, Cornet, that we ran away from our Colours.
Tim. Me—’twas the Major’s Ambition here—to make himself a great Man with the Council again.
Dull. Pox o’ this Ambition, it has been the ruin of many a gallant Fellow.
Whiff. If I get home again, the height of mine shall be [to top Tobacco]; would I’d some Brandy.