Sir Dav. Sweetheart, let us be quiet, and bring us wine hither. [Exit Drawer, who returns with wine.] So—[sits down]—from this moment, war, war, and mortal dudgeon against that enemy of my honour, and thief of my good name, called Beaugard. You can cut a throat upon occasion you say, friend?
Four. Sir, cutting of throats is my hereditary vocation; my father was hanged for cutting of throats before me, and my mother for cutting of purses.
Sir Dav. No more to be said; my courage is mounted like a little Frenchman upon a great horse, and I'll have him murdered.
Four. Sir! murdered you say, sir?
Sir Dav. Ay, murdered I say, sir; his face flayed off, and nailed to a post in my great hall in the country, amongst all the other trophies of wild beasts slain by our family since the Conquest; there's never a whore-master's head there yet.
Four. Sir, for that let me recommend this worthy friend of mine to your service; he's an industrious gentleman, and one that will deserve your favour.
Sir Dav. He looks but something ruggedly, though, methinks.
Four. But, sir, his parts will atone for his person; forms and fashions are the least of his study: he affects a sort of philosophical negligence indeed; but, sir, make trial of him, and you'll find him a person fit for the work of this world.
Sir Dav. What trade are you, friend?