SKIRMISH. Ne’er doubt me, George Pye-board,—only you must teach me to conjure.
[Enter Captain Idle, pinioned, and with a guard of Officers passeth over the Stage.]
PYE.
Puh, I’ll perfect thee, Peter.—How now? what’s he?
SKIRMISH.
Oh George! this sight kills me. Tis my sworn Brother,
Captain Idle.
PYE.
Captain Idle!
SKIRMISH. Apprehended for some felonious act or other. He has started out, h’as made a Night on’t, lackt silver. I cannot but commend his resolution; he would not pawn his Buff-Jerkin. I would either some of us were employed, or might pitch our Tents at Usurers’ doors, to kill the slaves as they peep out at the Wicket.
PYE. Indeed, those are our ancient Enemies; they keep our money in their hands, and make us to be hangd for robbing of ’em. But, come, let’s follow after to the Prison, and know the Nature of his offence; and what we can steed him in, he shall be sure of; and I’ll uphold it still, that a charitable Knave is better then a soothing Puritain.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE III. A Street.
[Enter at one door Corporal Oath, a Vain-glorious fellow;
and at the other, three of the Widdow Puritain’s Servingmen,
Nicholas Saint-Tantlings, Simon Saint-Mary-Overaries, and
Frailty, in black scurvy mourning coats, and Books at their
Girdles, as coming from Church. They meet.]