Haz. No, Gentlemen, I wear a Sword to right my self.
Tim. That’s fine, i’faith, Gads zoors, I’ve worn a Sword this dozen Year, and never cou’d right my self.
Whiff. Ay, ’twou’d be a fine World if Men should wear Swords to right themselves; he that’s bound to the Peace shall wear no Sword.
Whim. I say, he that’s bound to the Peace ought to wear no Peruke, they may change ’em for black or white, and then who can know them.
Haz. I hope, Gentlemen, I may be allowed to speak for my self.
Whiff. Ay, what can you say for your self, did you not draw your Sword, Sirrah?
Haz. I did.
Tim. ’Tis sufficient, he confesses the Fact, and we’ll hear no more.
Haz. You will not hear the Provocation given.
Dull. ’Tis enough, Sir, you drew—