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''Eth. (giving a Soldier a helmet filled with lots.)'' Here, take the lots and deal them fairly round. Heaven send to all of you, my valiant friends, A portion to your liking. This rough heap (pointing to the arms.) Will give at least to each some warlike trophy, Which henceforth, hung upon his humble walls, Shall tell his sons and grandsons yet to come In what proud fields, and with what gallant mates Their father fought. And I, methinks, well pleas'd, Resting, as heretofore I oft have done, My wand'ring steps beneath your friendly roofs, Shall, looking up, the friendly token spy, And in my host a fellow soldier hail.

''Soldiers. (with loud acclamations.)'' God bless you, noble chief! unto the death We'il hold to vou, brave leader!

Ethw. And if I also do not hold to you I am no warriour.(pointing to the spoils.) For this motley geer, Would it were all composed of precious things! That to his gentle wife or favour'd maid, Each soldier might have borne some goodly gift; But tell them, British matrons cross the woof With coarser hands than theirs.

1st Sol. Saint Alban bless his noble countenance! 'Twas fashion'd for bestowing.

2d Sol. Heav'n store his halls with wealth!

''Ethw. (going familiarly amongst the soldiers as the lots are drawing.)'' Well, Ogar, hast thou drawn? good luck to thee.