Morning.

Sir _Tim_. Ay, if there were no more in't than Exercise; if a Man cou'd
take a Breathing without breathing a Vein--but, _Sham_, this Wounds, and
Blood, sounds terribly in my Ears; but since thou say'st 'tis nothing,
prithee do thou meet _Bellmour_ in my stead; thou art a poor Dog, and
'tis no matter if the World were well rid of thee.

_Sham_. I wou'd do't with all my Soul--but your Honour, Sir--

Sir _Tim_.--My Honour! 'tis but Custom that makes it honourable to fight
Duels--I warrant you the wise _Italian_ thinks himself a Man of Honour;
and yet when did you hear of an _Italian_, that ever fought a Duel? Is't
not enough, that I am affronted, have my Mistress taken away before my
Face, hear my self call'd, dull, common Man, dull Animal, and the
rest?--But I must after all give him leave to kill me too, if he
can--And this is your damn'd Honourable _English_ way of shewing a
Man's Courage.

_Sham_. I must confess I am of your mind, and therefore have been
studying a Revenge, sutable to the Affront: and if I can judge any
thing, I have hit it.

Sir _Tim_. Hast thou? dear _Sham_, out with it.

_Sham_. Why, Sir--what think you of debauching his Sister?

Sir _Tim_. Why, is there such a thing in Nature?

_Sham_. You know he has a Sister, Sir.