Cour. Look you, 'tis a very impudent thing not to be drunk by this time: shall rogues stay in taverns to sip pints, and be sober, when honest gentlemen are drunk by gallons? I'll have none on't.
Sir Dav. O Lord, who's there? [Sits up in his chair.
Draw. I beseech your honour—our house will be utterly ruined by this means.
Cour. Damn your house, your wife and children, and all your family, you dog!—Sir, who are you? [To Sir Davy.
Sir Dav. Who am I, sir? what's that to you, sir? Will you tickle my foot, you rogue?
Cour. I'll tickle your guts, you poltroon, presently.
Sir Dav. Tickle my guts, you mad-cap! I'll tickle your toby, if you do.
Cour. What, with that circumcised band? that grave hypocritical beard, of the reformation-cut? Old fellow, I believe you are a rogue.
Sir Dav. Sirrah, you are a whore, an arrant bitch-whore; I'll use you like a whore; I'll kiss you, you jade; I'll ravish you, you buttock; I am a justice of the peace, sirrah, and that's worse.
Cour. Damn you, sir, I care not if you were a constable and all his watch: what, such a rogue as you send honest fellows to prison, and countenance whores in your jurisdiction for bribery, you mongrel! I'll beat you, sirrah, I'll brain you; I'll murder you, you mooncalf! [Throws the chair after him.