looks on his Sword.

_Fear._ --Hah--what have ye done?

_Bac._ Secur'd my self from being a publick Spectacle upon the common
Theatre of Death.

Enter _Daring_ and Soldiers.

_Dar._ Victory, Victory! they fly, they fly, where's the victorious
General?

_Fear._ Here,--taking his last Adieu.

_Dar._ Dying! Then wither all the Laurels on my Brows, for I shall never
triumph more in War; where are the Wounds?

_Fear._ From his own Hand, by what he carried here, believing we had
lost the Victory.

_Bac._ And is the Enemy put to flight, my Hero? [Grasps his Neck.

_Dar._ All routed Horse and Foot; I plac'd an Ambush, and while they
were pursuing you, my Men fell on behind, and won the day.

_Bac._ Thou almost makest me wish to live again, if I cou'd live now
fair _Semernia's_ dead.--But oh--the baneful Drug is just and kind, and
hastens me away--Now while you are Victors, make a Peace--with the
_English_ Council, and never let Ambition,--Love,--or Interest, make you
forget, as I have done, your Duty and Allegiance--Farewel--a long
Farewel--
[Dies embracing their Necks.

_Dar._ So fell the _Roman Cassius_, by mistake--

Enter Soldiers with _Dunce_, _Tim._ and _Dullman_.

_Sold._ An't please your Honour, we took these Men running away.

_Dar._ Let 'em loose--the Wars are at an end, see where the General
lies--that great-soul'd Man, no private Body e'er contain'd a nobler;
and he that cou'd have conquered all _America_, finds only here his
scanty length of Earth. Go, bear the Body to his own Pavilion--
[Soldiers go out with the Body.
though we are Conquerors we submit to treat, and yield upon Condition:
You, Mr. _Dunce_, shall bear our Articles to the Council.

_Dun._ With Joy I will obey you.

_Tim._ Good General, let us be put in the Agreement.

_Dar._ You shall be obliged--

[Ex. _Dar._ _Dun._ _Dull._ and _Tim._ as _Fear._ goes out a
Soldier meets him.

_Sold._ What does your Honour intend to do with _Whimsey_ and _Whiff_,
who are condemn'd by a Council of War?

Enter _Daring_, _Dullman_, _Tim._ _Fearless_, and Officers.

_Dar._ You come too late, Gentlemen, to be put into the Articles; nor am
I satisfy'd you're worthy of it.

_Dull._ Why, did not you, Sir, see us lie dead in the Field?

_Dar._ Yes, but I see no Wound about you.

_Tim._ We were stun'd with being knock'd down; Gads zoors, a Man may be
kill'd with the but-end of a Musquet, as soon as with the point