What man is this?
Tom.
Good master, this is the attendant surgeon, agreed upon by Whetstone’s second and myself, your own second and humble valet.
Fopdoodle.
Kind Mr. Surgeon, if we two fall at once, save me first; and I promise you a great reward from father’s patrimony. And as our wounds we do refer to you, I move to make you referee. Kind Mr. Surgeon, prescribe for me a breathing spell. [Scythe examines him with glass.] Tom, my man, stand firm! For as we crossed through yonder green and peaceful field, by some ominous mischance a sleeping, low-bred, fiery bull arose, with eyes big as our lanterns, filled with the flaming fat of animal fury. He chased; and as we fled, I thought I was pursued by an infuriated animal noun. Oh, doctor, prescribe for me a breathing spell.
Tom.
Good master, here is your dictionary, if you’d take a breathing spell.
Fopdoodle.
Unlettered ruffian, uncompassionate fool, do I clothe and fee you for this? Hand me my spirit of hartshorn to brace my spirits up. [Using smelling-bottle.] Had I but had this spirit of hartshorn in my nostrils, I would have had the spirit to face a thousand bulls. Where’s the infuriated dictionary?
Tom.