Colonel S. Sir, you fought a French count in Paris.
Sir H. True, sir, he was a beau, like myself. Now you're a soldier, colonel, and fighting's your trade; and I think it downright madness to contend with any man in his profession.
Colonel S. Come, sir, no more dallying; I shall take very unseemly methods, if you don't show yourself a gentleman.
Sir H. A gentleman! Why, there again, now. A gentleman! I tell you once more, colonel, that I am a baronet, and have eight thousand pounds a year. I can dance, sing, ride, fence, understand the languages—Now I can't conceive how running you through the body should contribute one jot more to my gentility. But pray, colonel, I had forgot to ask you, what's the quarrel?
Colonel S. A woman, sir.
Sir H. Then I put up my sword. Take her.
Colonel S. Sir, my honour's concerned.
Sir H. Nay, if your honour be concerned with a woman, get it out of her hands as soon as you can.—An honourable lover is the greatest slave in nature: some will say, the greatest fool. Come, come, colonel, this is something about the Lady Lurewell, I warrant; I can give you satisfaction in that affair.
Colonel S. Do so then immediately.
Sir H. Put up your sword first; you know I dare fight, but I had much rather make you a friend than an enemy. I can assure you this lady will prove too hard for one of your temper. You have too much honour, too much in conscience, to be a favourite with the ladies.