Under. Nothing like sage, thyme, pepper and salt.
Shears. Pepper and salt!—thunder and lightning!—for a colour!
Under. Thunder and lightning! why, you are in the clouds, man—in one word, could you pickle a Duke?
Shears. I pickle a Duke!
Under. Could you place a lozenge over a window, or make out a coat for a hatchment, without the help of a herald?
Shears. Mr. Hatchment! never made a coat for a gentleman of that name.
Under. Mr. Hatchment—you’ve a skull as thick as a tombstone.
Shears. Mayhap so, but I’ll let you know no cross-legg’d and bandy button-making, Bedford-bury, shred-seller shall rip a customer from me.
Under. Friend, depart in peace—or my cane shall make you a memento mori to all impertinent rascals.
Shears. Here’s a cowardly advantage! to attack a naked man—lay by your cane, and I’ll talk to you.