Enter Belvile, Willmore, Fred. Pedro [and Belvile’s Page]: Blunt looks simply, they all laugh at him, he lays his hand on his Sword, and conies up to Willmore.
Blunt. Hark ye, Sir, laugh out your laugh quickly, d’ye hear, and be gone, I shall spoil your sport else; ’dsheartlikins, Sir, I shall—the Jest has been carried on too long,—a Plague upon my Taylor— [Aside.
Will. ’Sdeath, how the Whore has drest him! Faith, Sir, I’m sorry.
Blunt. Are you so, Sir? keep’t to your self then, Sir, I advise you, d’ye hear? for I can as little endure your Pity as his Mirth. [Lays his Hand on’s Sword.
Belv. Indeed, Willmore, thou wert a little too rough with Ned Blunt’s Mistress; call a Person of Quality Whore, and one so young, so handsome, and so eloquent!—ha, ha, ha.
Blunt. Hark ye, Sir, you know me, and know I can be angry; have a care—for ’dsheartlikins I can fight too—I can, Sir,—do you mark me—no more.
Belv. Why so peevish, good Ned? some Disappointments, I’ll warrant—What! did the jealous Count her Husband return just in the nick?
Blunt. Or the Devil, Sir,—d’ye laugh? [They laugh.] Look ye, settle me a good sober Countenance, and that quickly too, or you shall know Ned Blunt is not—
Belv. Not every Body, we know that.
Blunt. Not an Ass, to be laught at, Sir.