_Well._ I am resolv'd I will not.

_Tim._ Then we are all dead Men, Gudzoors! he will not give us time to
say our Prayers.

_Well._ We every day expect fresh force from _England_, till then, we of
our selves shall be sufficient to make defence against a sturdy Traitor.

_Bac._ Traitor! S'death, Traitor--I defy ye, but that my Honour's yet
above my Anger, I'd make you answer me that Traitor dearly.
[Rises.

_Well._ Hah--am I threatned--Guards, secure the Rebel.
[Guards seize him.

_Bac._ Is this your honourable Invitation? Go--triumph in your
short-liv'd Victory, the next turn shall be mine.

[Exeunt Guards with _Bac._

_A Noise of Fighting--Enter _Bacon_, _Wellman's_ Guards beat back by the
Rabble, _Bacon_ snatches a Sword from one, and keeps back the Rabble,
_Tim._ gets under the Table._

_Down._ What means this Insolence?

_Rab._ We'll have our General, and knock that Fellow's Brains out, and
hang up Colonel _Wellman_.

_All._ Ay, ay, hang up _Wellman_.
[The Rabble seize _Well._ and _Dull._ and the rest.

_Dull._ Hold, hold, Gentlemen, I was always for the General.

_Rab._ Let's barbicu this fat Rogue.

_Bac._ Be gone, and know your distance to the Council.
[The Rabble let 'em go.

_Well._ I'd rather perish by the meanest Hand, than owe my safety poorly
thus to _Bacon_.
[In Rage.

_Bac._ If you persist still in that mind I'll leave you, and conquering
make you happy 'gainst your will.

[Ex. _Bacon_ and Rabble, hollowing a _Bacon_, a _Bacon_.

_Well._ Oh villanous Cowards! who will trust his Honour with Sycophants
so base? Let us to Arms--by Heaven, I will not give my Body rest, till
I've chastised the boldness of this Rebel.

[Exeunt _Well._ _Down._ and the rest, all but _Dull._ _Tim._ peeps
from under the Table.

_Tim._ What, is the roistering Hector gone, Brother?

_Dull._ Ay, ay, and the Devil go with him.
[Looking sadly, _Tim._ comes out.

_Tim._ Was there ever such a Bull of _Bashan_! Why, what if he should
come down upon us and kill us all for Traitors.

_Dull._ I rather think the Council will hang us all for
Cowards--ah--oh--a Drum--a Drum--oh.
[He goes out.

_Tim._ This is the Misery of being great.
We're sacrific'd to every turn of State. [Exit.

ACT III.

SCENE I. The Country Court, a great Table, with Papers, a _Clerk
writing._

Enter a great many People of all sorts, then _Friendly_, after him
_Dull