Queen. Alas, I fear thy Fate is drawing on, and I shall shortly meet thee in the Clouds; till then—farewel—even Death is pleasing to me, while thus—I find it in thy Arms— Dies.
Bac. There ends my Race of Glory and of Life. An Alarm at distance—continues a while.
Bac. Hah—Why should I idly whine away my Life, since there are nobler ways to meet with Death? Up, up, and face him then—Hark—there’s the Soldier’s Knell—and all the Joys of Life—with thee I bid farewel— Goes out. The Indians bear off the Body of the Queen.
The Alarm continues: Enter Downright, Wellman, and others, Swords drawn.
Well. They fight like Men possest—I did not think to have found them so prepar’d.
Down. They’ve good Intelligence—but where’s the Rebel?
Well. Sure he’s not in the Fight; Oh, that it were my happy chance to meet him, that while our Men look on, we might dispatch the business of the War—Come, let’s fall in again, now we have taken breath. They go out.
Enter Daring and Fearless hastily, with their Swords drawn; meet Whim. Whiff, with their Swords drawn, running away.
Dar. How now, whither away? In anger.
Whim. Hah, Daring here—we are pursuing of the Enemy, Sir; stop us not in the pursuit of Glory. Offers to go.