SHARP. Hey day! Captain, what’s the matter? You can tell.
BLUFF. Mr. Sharper, the matter is plain: Sir Joseph has found out your trick, and does not care to be put upon, being a man of honour.
SHARP. Trick, sir?
SIR JO. Ay, trick, sir, and won’t be put upon, sir, being a man of honour, sir, and so, sir—
SHARP. Harkee, Sir Joseph, a word with ye. In consideration of some favours lately received, I would not have you draw yourself into a premunire, by trusting to that sign of a man there—that pot-gun charged with wind.
SIR JO. O Lord, O Lord, Captain, come justify yourself—I’ll give him the lie if you’ll stand to it.
SHARP. Nay, then, I’ll be beforehand with you, take that, oaf. [Cuffs him.]
SIR JO. Captain, will you see this? Won’t you pink his soul?
BLUFF. Husht, ’tis not so convenient now—I shall find a time.
SHARP. What do you mutter about a time, rascal? You were the incendiary. There’s to put you in mind of your time.—A memorandum. [Kicks him.]