Sharp. Good morrow, Sir Timothy; what, not yet ready, and to meet Mr. Bellmour at Five? the time’s past.
Sir Tim.—Ay, Pox on’t—I han’t slept to Night for thinking on’t.
Sham. Well, Sir Timothy, I have most excellent News for you, that will do as well; I have found out—
Sir Tim. A new Wench, I warrant—But prithee, Sham, I have other matters in hand; ‘Sheart, I am so mortify’d with this same thought of Fighting, that I shall hardly think of Womankind again.
Sharp. And you were so forward, Sir Timothy—
Sir Tim. Ay, Sharp, I am always so when I am angry; had I been but
A little more provok’d then, that we might have gone to’t when the heat
was brisk, I had done well—but a Pox on’t, this fighting in cool
Blood I hate.
Sham. ‘Shaw, Sir, ‘tis nothing, a Man wou’d do’t for Exercise in a Morning.
Sir Tim. Ay, if there were no more in’t than Exercise; if a Man cou’d take a Breathing without breathing a Vein—but, Sham, this Wounds, and Blood, sounds terribly in my Ears; but since thou say’st ‘tis nothing, prithee do thou meet Bellmour in my stead; thou art a poor Dog, and ’.is no matter if the World were well rid of thee.
Sham. I wou’d do’t with all my Soul—but your Honour, Sir—
Sir Tim.—My Honour! ‘tis but Custom that makes it honourable to fight Duels—I warrant you the wise Italian thinks himself a Man of Honour; and yet when did you hear of an Italian, that ever fought a Duel? Is’t not enough, that I am affronted, have my Mistress taken away before my Face, hear my self call’d, dull, common Man, dull Animal, and the rest?—But I must after all give him leave to kill me too, if he can—And this is your damn’d Honourable English way of shewing a Man’s Courage.