Sir H. Pr'ythee, Dick, what makes the colonel so out of humour?
Vizard. Because he's out of pay, I suppose.
Sir H. 'Slife, that's true! I was beginning to mistrust some rivalship in the case.
Vizard. And suppose there were, you know the colonel can fight, Sir Harry.
Sir H. Fight! Pshaw—but he cannot dance, ha!—We contend for a woman, Vizard. 'Slife, man, if ladies were to be gained by sword and pistol only, what the devil should all we beaux do?
Vizard. I'll try him farther. [Aside.] But would not you, Sir Harry, fight for this woman you so much admire?
Sir H. Fight! Let me consider. I love her——that's true;——but then I love honest Sir Harry Wildair better. The Lady Lurewell is divinely charming——right——but then a thrust i' the guts, or a Middlesex jury, is as ugly as the devil.
Vizard. Ay, Sir Harry, 'twere a dangerous cast for a beau baronet to be tried by a parcel of greasy, grumbling, bartering boobies, who would hang you, purely because you're a gentleman.
Sir H. Ay, but on t'other hand, I have money enough to bribe the rogues with: so, upon mature deliberation, I would fight for her. But no more of her. Pr'ythee, Vizard, cannot you recommend a friend to a pretty mistress by the bye, till I can find my own? You have store, I'm sure; you cunning poaching dogs make surer game, than we that hunt open and fair. Pr'ythee now, good Vizard.
Vizard. Let me consider a little.—Now love and revenge inspire my politics! [Aside.