Loveyet. Sixty odd years indeed! provoking wretch!
Humphry. What a bloody passion he's in!
Trueman. Pray, Mr. Loveyet, do not anathematize me so;—if you do not civilize your phraseology a little, I must have recourse to a little castigation, for, necessitas non habet legem, you know, Mr. Loveyet.
Loveyet. I know nothing about such nonsense, not I.
Trueman. You are the most unenlightened, contumacious, litigious, petulant, opprobrious, proditorious, misanthropic mortal I ever confabulated a colloquy with; by the dignity of my profession you are.
Humphry. What monstrous queer words he discourses the old fellow with!
Loveyet. Mighty pleasant and witty, by my body; sixty years, forsooth!—But I'll be aveng'd of you.—Your daughter sha'n't have my son—there, sir,—how do you like that? Sixty years, indeed! Ugh, ugh.
Humphry. What an old reprobate it is! He swears till he sweats again.
Trueman. What an unlucky affair!
[Aside.