_Marpl._ No really, Sir _George_, mine sprung from civil Fury, happening
last Night into the Groom-Porters--I had a strong Inclination to go ten
Guineas with a sort of a, sort of a--kind of a Milk Sop, as I thought: A
Pox of the Dice he flung out, and my Pockets being empty as _Charles_
knows they sometimes are, he prov'd a surly _North-Britain_, and broke
my Face for my Deficiency.

Sir _Geo._ Ha! ha! and did not you draw?

_Marpl._ Draw, Sir, why, I did but lay my Hand upon my Sword to make a
swift Retreat, and he roar'd out. Now the Deel a Ma sol, Sir, gin ye
touch yer Steel, Ise whip mine through yer Wem.

Sir _Geo._ Ha, ha, ha,

_Cha._ Ha, ha, ha, ha, fase was the Word, so you walk'd off, I suppose.

_Marp._ Yes, for I avoid fighting, purely to be serviceable to my
Friends you know--

Sir _Geo._ Your Friends are much oblig'd to you, Sir, I hope you'll rank
me in that Number.

_Marpl._ Sir _George_, a Bow from the side Box, or to be seen in your
Chariot, binds me ever yours.

Sir _Geo._ Trifles, you may command 'em when you please.

_Cha._ Provided he may command you--