o' Victory, and adorn'd with
glitt'ring Standards of the vanquish'd Foe.

_Knap_. To hang up in _Westminster-Hall_, and make the Lawyers stare off
their Briefs;--But the Harmony of sounding a Retreat,--to hug my self with
two Arms, and walk substantially upon both my Pedestals, or the health of
Mind in lying sick at _Amsterdam_.

_Col_. Ay, here's a sorry Rascal, that lags always behind, and is afraid
to look Death i'the Face.

_Knap_. Why, really, Sir, 'tisn't manners to march before the _Colonel_;
and upon a warm Engagement, I have heard you talk musically of good
Conduct. Besides, that Mr._ Death_ is but a Hatchet-face Beau, so lean,
and wither'd like an old Dutchess, or a Doctor o' Physick, I had as live
see the Devil.

Sir _Har_. But when the Lines are forc'd, the Enemy slain, and the Placs
loaded with rich Plunder.--

_Knap_. None so nimble, none so valiant, none so expert as your very
humble Servant _Nehemiah Knapsack_.

_Col_. But, who are the raigning Beauties o'the Age? What Favours will
they grant a Soldier after a hard Campaign, fatiguing Marches, desp'rate
Attempts, and narrow Escapes, to preserve them from Rapine, Violence, and
Slav'ry, that they may laugh away the Day in gay Diversions, and pass the
silent Night in silver Slumbers on their Downy Beds?

Sir _Har_. Just as many Favours as you have Money or _Mechlin_ Lace to
purchase: Women apprehend not the Danger of War, and therefore have no
Notion of Gratitude.

_Coll_. Oh! The thoughts of scatt'ring small Shot among the sparkling
Tribe, to feast my Senses upon dear Variety, have ev'ry Day a new dazling
Beauty, and ev'ry Hour to taste the Joys of Love.

Sir _Har_. Don't fancy, _Collonel_, because you have beat the _French_ you
must conquer all the Ladies; there are Women that dare resist you boldly,
will exact your Courage beyond attacking a Fortress, and maintain a hotter
Engagement.

_Col._ If you mean Women of the Town, some of 'em wou'd give a Man a warm
Reception--Yet I long to be traversing the _Park_, ogling at the Play,
peeping up at Windows, and ferreting the Warren o' _Covent-Garden_, till I
seize on some skittish dapper Doxie, whose pretty black Eyes, dimpling
Cheeks, heaving Breasts, and soft Caresses, wou'd melt a Man--for half a
Guinea.

_Knap_. How I long too, to wheedle in with some Buxom Widow, that keeps a
Victualling-House, to provide me with Meat, Drink, Washing and Lodging--to
find out some delicious Chamber-Maid, that