_Char_. What made thee draw upon my Brother?

Sir _Tim_. Who, I, Sir? by Fortune, I love him--I draw upon him!

_Char_. I do not wonder thou canst lye, for thou'rt a Coward!
Didst not thou draw upon him? Is not thy Sword yet out?
Did I not see thee fierce, and active too, as if thou hadst dar'd?

Sir _Tim_. Why, he's gone, Sir; a Pox of all Mistakes and Masqueradings
I say--this was your Plot, _Sham_.

_Char_. Coward! Shew then thy Face.

Sir _Tim_. I'll be hang'd first, by Fortune; for then 'twill be plain
'twas I, because I challeng'd _Bellmour_ last Night, and broke my
Assignation this Morning. [_Aside_.

_Char_. Shew thy Face without delay, or--

Sir _Tim_. My Face, Sir! I protest, by Fortune, 'tis not worth seeing.

_Char_. Then, Sirrah, you are worth a kicking--take that--and that--
[_Kicks him_.

Sir _Tim_. How, Sir? how?

_Char_. So, Sir, so.
[_Kicks him again_.

Sir _Tim_. Have a care, Sir--by Fortune, I shall fight with a little