Whim. Why, an’t like your Honours, we were taken by the Enemy—hah, Daring here, and Fearless?
Fear. How now, Gentlemen, were not you two condemn’d to be shot for running from your Colours.
Down. From your Colours!
Fear. Yes, Sir, they were both listed in my Regiment.
Down. Then we must hang them for deserting us.
Whim. So, out of the Frying Pan—you know where, Brother—
Whiff. Ay, he that’s born to be hang’d—you know the rest; a Pox of these Proverbs.
Well. I know ye well—you’re all rank Cowards; but once more we forgive ye; your Places in the Council shall be supplied by these Gentlemen of Sense and Honour. The Governor when he comes, shall find the Country in better hands than he expects to find it.
Whim. A very fair Discharge.
Whiff. I’m glad ’tis no worse, I’ll home to my Nancy.