Rover. The choice is made. I have my Ranger's dress in my trunk: "Cousin of Buckingham, thou sage grave man!"
John. What?
Rover. "Since you will buckle fortune on my back, to bear her burden, whether I will or no, I must have patience to endure the load; but if black scandal, or foul faced"——
John. Black! my foul face was as fair as yours before I went to sea.
Rover. "Your mere enforcement shall acquittance me."
John. Man, don't stand preaching parson Sacks—come to the chariot.
Rover. Ay, to the chariot! "Bear me, Bucephalus, among the billows,—hey! for the Tygris!" [Exeunt.