I do not like old Ponteach's Talk and Air, He seems suspicious, and inclin'd to war.

SHARP.

They're always jealous, b.l.o.o.d.y, and revengeful, You see that they distrust our Word and Honour; No wonder then if they suspect the Traders, And often charge them with downright Injustice.

GRIPE.

True, when even we that come to make them Presents, Cannot escape their Fears and Jealousies.

CATCHUM.

Well, we have this, at least, to comfort us; Their good Opinion is no Commendation, Nor their foul Slanders any Stain to Honour.

I think we've done whatever Men could do To reconcile their savage Minds to Peace.

If they're displeas'd, our Honour is acquitted, And we have not been wanting in our Duty To them, our King, our Country, and our Friends.

GRIPE.

But what Returns are these they've left behind?

These Belts are valuable, and neatly wrought.

CATCHUM.

This Pack of Furs is very weighty too; The Skins are pick'd, and of the choicest Kind.

SHARP.

By Jove, they're worth more Money than their Presents.

GRIPE.

Indeed they are; the King will be no Loser.

SHARP.

The King! who ever sent such Trumpery to him?

CATCHUM.

What would the King of England do with Wampum?

Or Beaver Skins, d'ye think? He's not a Hatter!

GRIPE.

Then it's a Perquisite belongs to us?

SHARP.

Yes, they're become our lawful Goods and Chattels, By all the Rules and Laws of Indian Treaties.

The King would scorn to take a Gift from Indians, And think us Madmen, should we send them to him.

CATCHUM.

I understand we make a fair Division, And have no Words nor Fraud among ourselves.

SHARP.

We throw the whole into one common Stock, And go Copartners in the Loss and Gain.

Thus most who handle Money for the Crown Find means to make the better Half their own; And, to your better Judgments with Submission, The self Neglecter's a poor Politician.

These Gifts, you see will all Expences pay; } Heav'n send an Indian Treaty every Day; } We dearly love to serve our King this way. }

_The End of the First Act._

ACT II.

SCENE I. _An Indian House._

_Enter PHILIP and CHEKITAN from hunting, loaded with venison._

PHILIP.

The Day's Toil's ended, and the Ev'ning smiles With all the Joy and Pleasantness of Plenty.

Our good Success and Fortune in the Chace Will make us Mirth and Pastime for the Night.

How will the old King and his Hunters smile To see us loaded with the fatt'ning Prey, And joyously relate their own Adventures?

Not the brave Victor's Shout, or Spoils of War, Would give such Pleasure to their gladden'd Hearts.

CHEKITAN.

These, Philip, are the unstain'd Fruits of Peace, Effected by the conqu'ring British Troops.

Now may we hunt the Wilds secure from Foes, And seek our Food and Clothing by the Chace, While Ease and Plenty thro' our Country reign.

PHILIP.

Happy Effects indeed! long may they last!

But I suspect the Term will be but short, Ere this our happy Realm is curs'd afresh With all the Noise and Miseries of War, And Blood and Murder stain our Land again.

CHEKITAN.

What hast thou heard that seems to threaten this, Or is it idle Fancy and Conjectures?

PHILIP.

Our Father's late Behaviour and Discourse Unite to raise Suspicions in my Mind Of his Designs? Hast thou not yet observ'd, That tho' at first he favour'd England's Troops, When they late landed on our fertile Sh.o.r.e, Proclaim'd his Approbation of their March, Convoy'd their Stores, protected them from Harm, Nay, put them in Possession of Detroit; And join'd to fill the Air with loud Huzzas When England's Flag was planted on its Walls?

Yet, since, he seems displeas'd at their Success, Thinks himself injured, treated with Neglect By their Commanders, as of no Account, As one subdu'd and conquer'd with the French, As one, whose Right to Empire now is lost, And he become a Va.s.sal of their Power, Instead of an Ally. At this he's mov'd, And in his Royal Bosom glows Revenge, Which I suspect will sudden burst and spread Like Lightning from the Summer's burning Cloud, That instant sets whole Forests in a Blaze.