Mrs. Whiff. Lord, you need not have been so hasty.
Friend. Do not upbraid me with your Eyes, Chrisante; but let these Wounds assure you I endeavour’d to serve you, though Hazard had the Honour on’t.
Well. But, Ladies, we’ll not expose you in the Camp,—a Party of our Men shall see you safely conducted to Madam Surelove’s; ’tis but a little Mile from our Camp.
Friend. Let me have that honour, Sir.
Chris. No, I conjure you let your Wounds be dress’d; obey me if you love me, and Hazard shall conduct us home.
Well. He had the Toil, ’tis fit he have the Recompence.
Whiff. He the Toil, Sir! what, did we stand for Cyphers?
Whim. The very appearance I made in the front of the Battel, aw’d the Enemy.
Tim. Ay, ay, let the Enemy say how I maul’d ’em—but Gads zoors, I scorn to brag.
Well. Since you’ve regain’d your Honour so gloriously, I restore you to your Commands you lost by your seeming Cowardice.