Sharp. How, Sir?
Sir Tim. Why, how now—what, fly in my Face? Are your Stomachs so queasy, that Cheat won’t down with you?
Sham. Why, Sir, we are Gentlemen; and though our ill Fortunes have thrown us on your Bounty, we are not to be term’d—
Sir Tim. Why, you pair of Hectors—whence this Impudence?—Do ye know me, ye Raggamuffins?
Sham. Yes, but we knew not that you were a Coward before. You talkt big, and huft where-e’er you came, like an errant Bully; and so long we reverenc’d you—but now we find you have need of our Courage, we’ll stand on our own Reputations.
Sir Tim. Courage and Reputation!—ha, ha, ha—why, you lousy
Tatterdemallions—dare ye talk of Courage and Reputation?
Sharp. Why, Sir, who dares question either?
Sir Tim. He that dares try it. [Kicks ‘em.
Sharp. Hold, Sir, hold.
Sham. Enough, enough, we are satisfy’d.