Haz. I was not born to work, Sir.
Tim. Not work, Sir! Zoors, your Betters have workt, Sir. I have workt my self, Sir, both set and stript Tobacco, for all I am of the honourable Council. Not work, quoth a!—I suppose, Sir, you wear your Fortune upon your Back, Sir?
Haz. Is it your Custom here, Sir, to affront Strangers? I shall expect Satisfaction. Rises.
Tim. Why, does any body here owe you any thing?
Dull. No, unless he means to be paid for drinking with us,—ha, ha, ha.
Haz. No, Sir, I have money to pay for what I drink: here’s my Club, my Guinea, Flings down a [Guinea].
I scorn to be oblig’d to such Scoundrels.
Booz. Hum—call Men of Honour Scoundrels. Rise in huff.
Tim. Let him alone, let him alone, Brother; how should he learn Manners? he never was in Virginia before.
Dull. He’s some Covent-Garden Bully.