Sir Cred. Worse! Zoz, Man, what the Devil can be worse?
Lod. Why, he has vow’d to kill you himself wherever he meets you, and now waits below to that purpose.
Sir Cred. Sha, sha, if that be all, I’ll to him immediately, and make Affidavit I never had any such design. Madam Isabella! ha, ha, alas, poor man, I have some body else to think on.
Lod. Affidavit! why, he’ll not believe you, should you swear your Heart out: some body has possess’d him that you are a damn’d Fool, and a most egregious Coward, a Fellow that to save your Life will swear any thing.
Sir Cred. What cursed Luck’s this!—why, how came he to know I liv’d here?
Lod. I believe he might have it from Leander, who is his Friend.
Sir Cred. Leander! I must confess I never lik’d that Leander since yesterday.
Lod. He has deceiv’d us all, that’s the truth on’t; for I have lately found out too, that he’s your Rival, and has a kind of a—
Sir Cred. Smattering to my Mistress, hah, and therefore wou’d not be wanting to give me a lift out of this World; but I shall give her such a go-by—my Lady Knowell understands the difference between three Thousand a Year, and—prithee what’s his Estate?
Lod. Shaw—not sufficient to pay Surgeons Bills.