Sir Cred. Good Lord, Lodwick, thou art the strangest Man,—what do you mean to fright a body thus?
Lod. You remember the Serenade last night?
Sir Cred. Remember it? Zoz, I think I do, here be the marks on’t sure.— Pulls off his Peruke, and shews his Head broke.
Lod. Ads me, your Head’s broke.
Sir Cred. My Head broke! why, ’twas a hundred to one but my Neck had been broke.
Lod. Faith, not unlikely,—you know the next House is Sir Patient Fancy’s; Isabella too, you know, is his Daughter.
Sir Cred. Yes, yes, she was by when I made my dumb Oration.
Lod. The same,—this Lady has a Lover, a mad, furious, fighting, killing Hector, (as you know there are enough about this Town) this Monsieur supposing you to be a Rival, and that your Serenade was address’d to her—
Sir Cred. Enough, I understand you, set those Rogues on to murder me.
Lod. Wou’d ’twere no worse.