Sharp.
To our great King your Gifts we will convey,
And let him know the Talk we've had with you;
We're griev'd we cannot smoke the Pipe of Peace,
And part with stronger Proofs of Love and Friendship;
Meantime we hope you'll so consider Matters,
As still to keep the Hatchet dull and buried,
And open wide the shining Path of Peace,
That you and we may walk without a Blunder.
[Exeunt Indians.
Gripe.
Th' appear not fully satisfied, I think.
Catchum.
I do not like old Ponteach's Talk and Air,
He seems suspicious, and inclin'd to war.
Sharp.
They're always jealous, bloody, and revengeful,
You see that they distrust our Word and Honour;
No wonder then if they suspect the Traders,
And often charge them with downright Injustice.
Gripe.