Dar. Stay!—I have not seen you in my Ranks to day.
Whiff. Lord, does your Honour take us for [Starters]?
Fear. Yes, Sirrah, and believe you are now [rubbing off]—confess, or I’ll run you through.
Whiff. Oh, mercy, Sir, mercy, we’ll confess.
Whim. What will you confess? we were only going behind yon Hedge to untruss a point; that’s all.
Whiff. Ay, your Honours will smell out the truth, if you keep us here long.
Dar. Here, carry them Prisoners to my Tent. Ex. Soldiers with Whim. and Whiff.
Enter Ranter without a Hat, and Sword drawn, Daring angrily goes the other way.
Ran. A pox of all ill luck, how came I to lose Daring in the fight? Ha—who’s here? [Dullman and Timorous] dead—the Rogues are Counterfeits.—I’ll see what Moveables they have about them, all’s lawful Prize in War. Takes their Money, Watches and Rings; goes out.
Tim. What, rob the dead?—why, what will this villanous World come to? Clashing of Swords, just as they were going to rise.