Dull. Why, Sir, we were somebody in England.
Friend. So I heard, Major.
Dull. You heard, Sir! what have you heard? he’s a Kidnapper that says he heard any thing of me—and so my service to you.—I’ll sue you, Sir, for spoiling my Marriage here by your Scandals with Mrs. Chrisante: but that shan’t do, Sir, I’ll marry her for all that, and he’s a Rascal that denies it.
Friend. S’death, you lye, Sir—I do.
Tim. Gad zoors, Sir, lye to a Privy-Counsellor, a Major of Horse! Brother, this is an Affront to our Dignities: draw and I’ll side with you. They both draw on Friendly, the Ladies run off.
Friend. If I disdain to draw, ’tis not that I fear your base and cowardly Force, but for the respect I bear you as Magistrates, and so I leave you. Goes out.
Tim. An arrant Coward, gad zoors.
Dull. A mere Paultroon, and I scorn to drink in his Company.
Exeunt, putting up their Swords.