Clinch. sen. With all my heart, sir.
Sir H. Harkye, Mr. Jubilee, can you digest a brace of bullets?
Clinch. sen. Oh, by no means in the world, sir.
Sir H. I'll try the strength of your stomach, however. Sir, you're a dead man.
[Presenting the Pistol to his Breast.
Clinch. sen. Consider, dear sir, I am going to the Jubilee: when I come home again, I am a dead man at your service.
Sir H. Oh, very well, sir; but take heed you are not so choleric for the future.
Clinch. sen. Choleric, sir! Oons, I design to shoot seven Italians in a week, sir.
Sir H. Sir, you won't have provocation.
Clinch. sen. Provocation, sir! Zouns, sir, I'll kill any man for treading upon my corns: and there will be a devilish throng of people there: they say that all the princes of Italy will be there.