Upon my shoulders.
Urr. Is ’t not very strange,
Your disposition, Lope? never at peace
With others or yourself.
Lope. ’Tis nothing, sir.
Vic. He quarrell’d with me, sir, about some money
He thought he ought to have, and couldn’t find
In his breeches’ pocket.
Urr. Go, go—get you gone, knave.
Vic. Always fair words from you at any rate. (Aside.)