Lod. Why, yes, faith, I was persuading him to speak to his Friend about this Business; but he swears there’s no hopes of a Reconciliation: you are a dead Man, unless some cleanly conveyance of you be soon thought on.
Sir Cred. Why, I’ll keep within doors, and defy Malice and foul Weather.
Lod. Oh, he means to get a Warrant, and search for stolen Goods, prohibited Commodities or Conventicles; there’s a thousand Civil Pretences in this Town to commit Outrages—let me see.— They both pause a while.
Sir Cred. Well, I have thought,—and of such a Business, that the Devil’s in’t if you don’t say I am a man of Intrigue.
Lod. What is’t?
Sir Cred. Ha, ha, ha, I must have leave to laugh to think how neatly I shall defeat this Son of a Whore of a thunder thumping Hector.
Lod. Be serious, Sir, this is no laughing matter; if I might advise, you should steal into the Country, for two or three days, till the Business be blown over.
Sir Cred. Lord, thou art so hasty and conceited of thy own Invention, thou wilt not give a Man leave to think in thy company: why, these were my very thoughts; nay more, I have found a way to get off clever, though he watch me as narrowly as an enraged Serjeant upon an Escape.
Lod. That indeed wou’d be a Master-piece.
Sir Cred. Why, look ye, do you see that great Basket there?