Bel. Why, then his Portion’s paid.
[Charles wounded.
Sir Tim. How, kill’d! Nay, ‘tis time we departed then, and shifted for ourselves.
[Ex. Sir Tim. Sham and Sharp.
Trust. Oh, Sir, shall I send for a Chyrurgion?
Char. No, for a Coach rather, I am not wounded much.
[Ex. Trusty.
Bel. How dar’st thou trust thy self alone with me?
Char. Why should I fear thee?
Bel. Because I’m mad, Mad as a Tygress rob’d of her dear Young.
Char. What is’t that makes you so?