Taylor. O dear Gentlemen, I shall be quite undone, if you take the Gown.
Sir John. Retire, Sirrah; and since you carry off your Skin—go home, and be happy.
Taylor. (Pausing.) I think I had e’en as good follow the Gentleman’s friendly Advice; for if I dispute any longer, who knows but the Whim may take him to case me? These Courtiers are fuller of Tricks than they are of Money; they’ll sooner cut a Man’s Throat, than pay his Bill.
(Exit Taylor.)
Sir John. So, how d’ye like my Shapes now?
Lord Rake. This will do to a Miracle; he looks like a Bishop going to the Holy War. But to your Arms, Gentlemen, the Enemy appears.
Enter Constable and Watch
Watchman. Stand! Who goes there? Come before the Constable.
Sir John. The Constable’s a Rascal—and you are the Son of a Whore.