Poh. Tuscalonian? very good.
Fus. God’s life, I was ne’er so thrummed since I was a gentleman: my coxcomb was dry beaten, as if my hair had been hemp.
Cram. We’ll dry-beat some of them.
Fus. Nay, it grew so high, that my sister cried out murder, very manfully: I have her consent, in a manner, to have him peppered: else I’ll not do’t, to win more than ten cheaters do at a rifling: break but his pate, or so, only his mazer,[200] because I’ll have his head in a cloth as well as mine; he’s a linen-draper, and may take enough. I could enter mine action of battery against him, but we may’haps be both dead and rotten before the lawyers would end it.
Cram. No more to do, but ensconce yourself i’th’ tavern; provide no great cheer, a couple of capons, some pheasants, plovers, an orangeado-pie, or so: but how bloody howsoe’er the day be, sally you not forth.
Fus. No, no; nay if I stir, some body shall stink: I’ll not budge: I’ll lie like a dog in a manger.
Cram. Well, well, to the tavern, let not our supper be raw, for you shall have blood enough, your bellyful.
Fus. That’s all, so God sa’ me, I thirst after; blood for blood, bump for bump, nose for nose, head for head, plaster for plaster; and so farewell. What shall I call your names? because I’ll leave word, if any such come to the bar.
Cram. My name is Corporal Crambo.
Poh. And mine, Lieutenant Poh.