o retire; live a private person. Scipio and others have done it.

SHARP. Impudent rogue. [_Aside_.]

SIR JO. Ay, this damned modesty of yours. Agad, if he would put in
for't he might be made general himself yet.

BLUFF. Oh, fie! no, Sir Joseph; you know I hate this.

SIR JO. Let me but tell Mr. Sharper a little, how you ate fire once out
of the mouth of a cannon. Agad, he did; those impenetrable whiskers of
his have confronted flames--

BLUFF. Death, what do you mean, Sir Joseph?

SIR JO. Look you now. I tell you he's so modest he'll own nothing.

BLUFF. Pish, you have put me out, I have forgot what I was about. Pray
hold your tongue, and give me leave. [_Angrily_.]

SIR JO. I am dumb.

BLUFF. This sword I think I was telling you of, Mr. Sharper. This sword
I'll maintain to be the best divine, anatomist, lawyer, or casuist in
Europe; it shall decide a controversy or split a cause--

SIR JO. Nay, now I must speak; it will split a hair, by the Lord Harry,
I have seen it.

BLUFF. Zounds, sir, it's a lie; you have not seen it, nor sha'n't see
it; sir, I say you can't see; what d'ye say to that now?

SIR JO. I am blind.

BLUFF. Death, had any other man interrupted me--

SIR JO. Good Mr. Sharper, speak to him; I dare not look that way.

SHARP. Captain, Sir Joseph's penitent.

BLUFF. Oh, I am calm, sir, calm as a discharged culverin. But 'twas
indiscreet, when you know what will provoke me. Nay, come, Sir Joseph,
you know my heat's soon over.

SIR JO. Well, I am a fool sometimes, but I'm sorry.

BLUFF. Enough.

SIR JO. Come, we'll go take a glass to drown animosities. Mr. Sharper,
will you partake?

SHARP. I wait on you, sir. Nay, pray, Captain; you are Sir Joseph's
back.

SCENE III.

ARAMINTA, BELINDA, BETTY _waiting_, _in Araminta's apartment_.

BELIN. Ah! nay, dear; prithee, good, dear, sweet cousin, no more. O
Gad! I swear you'd make one sick to hear you.

ARAM. Bless me! what have I said to move you thus?

BELIN. Oh, you have raved, talked idly, and all in commendation of that
filthy, awkward, two-legged creature man. You don't know what you've
said; your fever has transported you.

ARAM. If love be the fever which you mean, kind heaven avert the cure.
Let me have oil to feed that flame, and never let it be extinct till I
myself am ashes.

BELIN. There was a whine! O Gad, I hate your horrid fancy. This love
is the devil, and, sure, to be in l