PROBE.
Why, what the devil have you run the gentleman through with—a scythe?—[Aside.] A little scratch between the skin and the ribs, that’s all.
LOVELESS.
Let me see his wound.
PROBE.
Then you shall dress it, sir; for if anybody looks upon it I won’t.
LOVELESS.
Why, thou art the veriest coxcomb I ever saw!
PROBE.
Sir, I am not master of my trade for nothing.
LORD FOPPINGTON.
Surgeon!
PROBE.
Sir.
LORD FOPPINGTON.
Are there any hopes?
PROBE.
Hopes! I can’t tell. What are you willing to give for a cure?
LORD FOPPINGTON.
Five hundred paunds with pleasure.