_Jean_.
We have no friends spiked on the Scottish Gate.

_Man_.
No? Well, there's quite a quire of voices there,
Blessing the King's just wisdom for his stern
Strong policy with the rebels.

_Mary_.
Who are those?--
I think it's fiendish to have killed so many.

_Man_.
The chattering birds, my lass, and droning flies:
They're proper Whigs, are birds and flies,--or else
The Whigs are proper crows and carrion-bugs.

[_He goes on past them_.

_Katrina_.
A Jacobite?

_Jean_.
That's it, I warrant you.
One of the stay-at-homes.

_Mary_.
Now promise me,
We'll only take a glimpse, girls, a short glimpse.