Gripe. Ah, brazen rogue——thou hast stole it from my wife: 'tis the same she lost six weeks ago.
Brass. This has not been in England a month.
Gripe. You are a son of a whore.
Brass. Give me my necklace.
Gripe. Give me my two hundred and fifty pound note.
Brass. Yet I offer peace: one word without passion. The case stands thus, either I'm out of my wits, or you are out of yours: now 'tis plain I am not out of my wits, Ergo——
Gripe. My bill, hang-dog, or I'll strangle thee.
[They struggle.
Brass. Murder, murder!