Watchman. A good civil answer for a Parson, truly!
Constable. Methinks, Sir, a Man of your Coat might set a better Example.
Sir John. Sirrah, I’ll make you know—there are Men of my Coat can set as bad Examples—as you can, you Dog you.
(Sir John strikes the Constable. They knock him down, disarm him, and seize him. Lord Rake &c. run away.)
Constable. So, we have secur’d the Parson however.
Sir John. Blood, and Blood—and Blood.
Watchman. Lord have mercy upon us! How the wicked Wretch raves of Blood. I’ll warrant he has been murdering some body tonight.
Sir John. Sirrah, there’s nothing got by Murder but a Halter: My Talent lies towards Drunkenness and Simony.
Watchman. Why that now was spoke like a Man of Parts, Neighbours; it’s pity he should be so disguis’d.
Sir John. You lye—I’m not disguis’d; for I am drunk bare-fac’d.