Tim. Or some broken Citizen turned Factor.
Haz. Sir, you lye, and you are a Rascal. Flings the Brandy in his Face.
Tim. Adz zoors, he has spil’d all the Brandy. Tim. runs behind the Door, Dull, and Booz. strike Hazard.
Haz. I understand no Cudgel-play, but wear a Sword to right myself. Draws, they run off.
Flirt. Good Heavens! what, quarelling in my House?
Haz. Do the Persons of Quality in this Country treat Strangers thus?
Flirt. Alas, Sir, ’tis a familiar way they have, Sir.
Haz. I’m glad I know it.—Pray, Madam, can you inform one how I may be furnish’d with a Horse and a Guide to Madam Surelove’s?
Flirt. A most accomplish’d Lady, and my very good Friend, you shall be immediately—
Exeunt.