Sir Jol. The devil, neighbour?
Sir Dav. Ay, ay, there's no help for't; at first I fancied it was a young white bear's cub dancing in the shadow of my candle; then it was turned to a pair of blue breeches with wooden legs on, stamped about the room, as if all the cripples in town had kept their rendezvous there; when all of a sudden, it appeared like a leathern serpent, and with a dreadful clap of thunder flew out of the window.
Sir Jol. Thunder! why, I heard no thunder.
Sir Dav. That may be too; what, were you asleep?
Sir Jol. Asleep, quoth-a? no, no; no sleeping this night for me, I assure you.
Sir Dav. Well, what's the best news then? How does the man?
Sir Jol. Even as he did before he was born nothing at all; he's dead.
Sir Dav. Dead! what, quite dead?
Sir Jol. As good as dead, if not quite dead; 'twas a horrid murder! and then the terror of conscience, neighbour.
Sir Dav. And truly I have a very terrified one, friend, though I never found I had any conscience at all till now. Pray whereabout was his death's-wound?