BELL. Speaks miracles, is the drum to his own praise--the only
implement of a soldier he resembles, like that, being full of
blustering noise and emptiness -
SHARP. And like that, of no use but to be beaten.
BELL. Right; but then the comparison breaks, for he will take a
drubbing with as little noise as a pulpit cushion.
SHARP. His name, and I have done?
BELL. Why, that, to pass it current too, he has gilded with a
title: he is called Capt. Bluffe.
SHARP. Well, I'll endeavour his acquaintance--you steer another
course, are bound -
For love's island: I, for the golden coast.
May each succeed in what he wishes most.
ACT II.--SCENE I.
SIR JOSEPH WITTOLL, SHARPER following.
SHARP. Sure that's he, and alone.
SIR JO. Um--Ay, this, this is the very damned place; the inhuman
cannibals, the bloody-minded villains, would have butchered me last
night. No doubt they would have flayed me alive, have sold my
skin, and devoured, etc.
SHARP. How's this!
SIR JO. An it hadn't been for a civil gentleman as came by and
frighted 'em away--but, agad, I durst not stay to give him thanks.
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