Rover. 'Sdeath! but let me proceed like a gentleman; as it's my pride to reject even favours, no man shall offer me an injury.
Sir Geo. Eh!
Rover. In rank we're equal.
Sir Geo. Are we faith? [Smiling.] The English of all this is, we're to fight.
Rover. Sir, you have marked on me an indelible stain, only to be washed out by blood.
Sir Geo. Why, I've only one objection to fighting you.
Rover. What's that, sir?
Sir Geo. That you're too brave a lad to be killed.
Rover. Brave! No, sir; at present I wear the stigma of a coward.
Sir Geo. Zounds! I like a bit of fighting—hav'n't had a morsel a long time—don't know when I've smelt gunpowder—but to bring down a woodcock.