Ravish! marry, I fear 'em not, I'd have 'em know, I scorn
to be ravish'd by any Man.

_Fear._ Ay, o' my Conscience, Mrs. _Whiff_, you are too good-natur'd.

_Dar._ Madam, I hope you'll give me leave to name Love to you, and try
by all submissive ways to win your Heart.

_Chris._ Do your worst, Sir: I give you leave, if you assail me only
with your Tongue.

_Dar._ That's generous and brave, and I'll requite it.

Enter _Soldier_ in haste.

_Sold._ The Truce being ended, Sir, the _Indians_ grow so insolent as to
attack us even in our Camp, and have killed several of our Men.

_Bac._ 'Tis time to check their Boldness; _Daring_, haste, draw up our
Men in order to give 'em Battel, I rather had expected their submission.

_The Country now may see what they're to fear,
Since we that are in Arms are not secure._

[Exeunt, leading the Ladies.

ACT IV.

SCENE I. _A Temple, with an _Indian_ God placed upon it, Priests and
Priestesses attending: Enter _Indian King_ on one side attended by
_Indian_ Men; the _Queen_ enters on the other with Women. All bow to the
Idol, and divide on each side of the Stage. Then the Musick playing
louder, the Priests and Priestesses dance about the Idol with ridiculous
Postures, and crying (as for Incantations) thrice repeated, _Agah
Yerkin, Agah Boah, Sulen Tawarapah, Sulen Tawarapah_._

_After this soft Musick plays again: then they sing something fine:
after which the Priests lead the _King_ to the Altar, and the
Priestesses the _Queen_; they take off little Crowns from their Heads,
and offer them at the Altar._

_King._ Invoke the God of our Quiocto to declare what the Event shall be
of this our last War against the _English_ General.

[Soft Musick ceases.

[The Musick changes to confused Tunes, to which the Priests and
Priestesses dance, antickly singing between, the same Incantation
as before; and then dance again, and so invoke again alternately:
Which Dance ended, a Voice behind the Altar cries, while soft
Musick plays,

The _English_ General shall be
A Captive to his Enemy;
And you from all your Toils be freed,
When by your Hand the Foe shall bleed:
And e'er the Sun's swift course be run,
This mighty Conquest shall be won.

_King._ I thank the Gods for taking care of us; prepare new Sacrifice
against the Evening, when I return a Conqueror, I will my self perform
the Office of a Priest.

_Queen._ Oh, Sir, I fear yo