Sir Geo. Oh, I honour Men of the Sword, and I presume this Gentleman is lately come from Spain or Portugal—by his Scars.
Marpl. No really, Sir George, mine sprung from civil Fury, happening last Night into the Groom-Porters—I had a strong Inclination to go ten Guineas with a sort of a, sort of a—kind of a Milk Sop, as I thought: A Pox of the Dice he flung out, and my Pockets being empty as Charles knows they sometimes are, he prov'd a surly North-Britain, and broke my Face for my Deficiency.
Sir Geo. Ha! ha! and did not you draw?
Marpl. Draw, Sir, why, I did but lay my Hand upon my Sword to make a swift Retreat, and he roar'd out. Now the Deel a Ma sol, Sir, gin ye touch yer Steel, Ise whip mine through yer Wem.
Sir Geo. Ha, ha, ha,
Cha. Ha, ha, ha, ha, fase was the Word, so you walk'd off, I suppose.
Marp. Yes, for I avoid fighting, purely to be serviceable to my Friends you know—
Sir Geo. Your Friends are much oblig'd to you, Sir, I hope you'll rank me in that Number.
Marpl. Sir George, a Bow from the side Box, or to be seen in your Chariot, binds me ever yours.
Sir Geo. Trifles, you may command 'em when you please.