Gripe. A pennyworth on't, villain?
[Strikes at him.
Brass. Villain! a hey, a hey. Is't you or me, Mr. Clip, he's pleas'd to compliment?
Clip. What do you think on't, Sir?
Brass. Think on't, now the devil fetch me if I know what to think on't.
Gripe. You'll sell a pennyworth, rogue! of a thing you have stol'n from me.
Brass. Stol'n! pray, Sir——what wine have you drank to-day? It has a very merry effect upon you.
Gripe. You villain; either give me an account how you stole it, or——
Brass. O ho, Sir, if you please, don't carry your jest too far, I don't understand hard words, I give you warning on't: if you han't a mind to buy the necklace, you may let it alone, I know how to dispose on't. What a pox!——