Faulk. Nay, if Mr. Acres is so bent on the matter—

Acres. No, no, Mr. Faulkland;—I’ll bear my disappointment like a Christian.—Look’ee, Sir Lucius, there’s no occasion at all for me to fight; and if it is the same to you, I’d as lieve let it alone.

Sir Luc. Observe me, Mr. Acres—I must not be trifled with. You have certainly challenged somebody—and you came here to fight him. Now, if that gentleman is willing to represent him—I can’t see, for my soul, why it isn’t just the same thing.

Acres. Why no—Sir Lucius—I tell you, ’tis one Beverley I’ve challenged—a fellow, you see, that dare not show his face!—if he were here, I’d make him give up his pretensions directly!

Abs. Hold, Bob—let me set you right—there is no such man as Beverley in the case.—The person who assumed that name is before you; and as his pretensions are the same in both characters, he is ready to support them in whatever way you please.

Sir Luc. Well, this is lucky.—Now you have an opportunity—

Acres. What, quarrel with my dear friend, Jack Absolute?—not if he were fifty Beverleys! Zounds! Sir Lucius, you would not have me so unnatural.

Sir Luc. Upon my conscience, Mr. Acres, your valour has oozed away with a vengeance!

Acres. Not in the least! Odds backs and abettors! I’ll be your second with all my heart—and if you should get a quietus, you may command me entirely. I’ll get you snug lying in the Abbey here; or pickle you, and send you over to Blunderbuss-hall, or anything of the kind, with the greatest pleasure.

Sir Luc. Pho! pho! you are little better than a coward.

Acres. Mind, gentlemen, he calls me a coward; coward was the word, by my valour!

Sir Luc. Well, sir?

Acres. Look’ee, Sir Lucius, ’tisn’t that I mind the word coward —coward may be said in joke—But if you had called me a poltroon, odds daggers and balls—

Sir Luc. Well, sir?

Acres. I should have thought you a very ill-bred man.

Sir Luc. Pho! you are beneath my notice.

Abs. Nay, Sir Lucius, you can’t have a better second than my friend Acres.—He is a most determined dog—called in the country, Fighting Bob.—He generally kills a man a week—don’t you Bob?

Acres. Ay—at home!

Sir Luc. Well, then, captain, ’tis we must begin—so come out, my little counsellor—[Draws his swora]—and ask the gentleman, whether he will resign the lady, without forcing you to proceed against him?

Abs. Come on then, sir—[Draws]; since you won’t let it be an amicable suit, here’s my reply.

Enter Sir Anthony Absolute, David, Mrs. Malaprop, Lydia, and Julia.

Dav. Knock ’em all down, sweet Sir Anthony; knock down my master in particular; and bind his hands over to their good behaviour!