Whiff. Oh, Sir, I am going home for Money to redeem my Nancy.
Whim. So am I, Sir.
Tim. I thank my Stars I am a Batchelor.—Why, what a Plague is a Wife?
Haz. Will you march forward?
Dull. We have atchiev’d Honour enough already, in having made our Campaign here— Looking big.
Haz. ’Sdeath, but you shall go—put them in the front, and prick them on—if they offer to turn back, run them thro.
Tim. Oh, horrid— The Soldiers prick them on with their Swords.
Whiff. Oh, Nancy, thy Dream will yet come to pass.
Haz. Will you advance, Sir? Pricks Whiff.
Whiff. Why, so we do, Sir; the Devil’s in these fighting Fellows. [Exeunt.]