Tim. Gads zoors, would we had, ’tis the best Armour against Fear—hum—I hear no body now—prithee advance a little.
Whim. What, before a Horse-Officer?
Friend. Stand, on your Lives—
Tim. Oh, ’tis impossible—I’m dead already.
Friend. What are ye?—speak—or I’ll shoot.
Whim. Friends to thee,—who the Devil are we Friends to?
Tim. E’en who please you, Gad zoors.
Friend. Hah—Gad zoors—who’s there, Timorous?
Tim. Hum—I know no such Scoundrel— Gets behind.
Dull. Hah—that’s Friendly’s Voice.