Lov. Why then he'll bleed to Death, Sir.
Syr. Why, then I'll fetch him to life again, Sir.
Lov. 'Slife, he's run thro' the Guts, I tell thee.
Syr. Wou'd he were run thro' the Heart, I shou'd get the more Credit by his Cure. Now I hope you are satisfy'd?——Come, now let me come at him; now let me come at him. [Viewing his Wound.] Oons, what a Gash is here!—Why, Sir, a Man may drive a Coach and Six Horses into your Body.
Lord Fop. Ho——
Syr. Why, what the Devil, have you run the Gentleman thro' with a Scythe?——[Aside.] A little Prick between the Skin and the Ribs, that's all.
Lov. Let me see his Wound.
Syr. Then you shall dress it, Sir; for if any body looks upon it, I won't.
Lov. Why, thou art the veriest Coxcomb I ever saw.