Abel. Down with Gog and Magog, there; there’s the rotten Bell weather that leads the rest astray, and defiles the whole Flock.
Rog. Hang your preaching, and let’s come to him, we’ll maul him. Beat Sir Cred.
Sir Cred. Oh, Quarter, Quarter, Murder, Help, Murder, Murder!
Enter Lodwick.
Lod. Damn these Rascals, who e’er they were, that so unluckily redeem’d a Rival from my Fury,—Hah, they are here,—Egad, I’ll have one touch more with ’em,—the Dogs are spoiling my design’d Serenade too—have amongst ye.— Fights and beats ’em off. Sir Credulous, how is’t?
Sir Cred. Who’s there? Lodwick? Oh dear Lad, is’t thou that hast redeem’d me from the inchanted Cudgels that demolish’d my triumphant Pageant, and confounded my Serenade? Zoz, I’m half kill’d, Man,—I have never a whole Bone about me sure.
Lod. Come in with me—a plague upon the Rascal that escap’d me.