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[To Lord Ormond, in an undertone.
Pure rhapsodies! If he declines to hear,
'Tis that he's jealous!
Davenant. 'Tis that he's jealous! What! My lord is wroth?
Rochester.Deuce take you! leave me.
Davenant. Deuce take you! leave me. Nay, upon my life,
I did not think to wound you!
Ormond. I did not think to wound you! Prithee, my lord—
Rochester [turning away.]Pride!
Davenant. Pride! Deign, my lord—
Rochester [repelling him.]Rank envy!
Ormond [warmly.] Rank envy! By St. George!
To gentle measures I am not inclined.
One drop makes the full cup to overflow.—
My lord, the veriest fop who cuts a dash
In Paris, the last fribble who on Place Royale
Displays his hat with all its drooping plumes,
His ribbons and lace frill and curly wig
And bottines highly varnished, has a mind
Less filled than yours is with absurd conceits!
Rochester [in a rage.]My lord, you're not my father! Your grey hairs
In vain bear aid to your insulting speech.
Your words are young and make us of like age.
For this affront you 'll answer me, by God!
Ormond.With all my heart. Out sword, my pretty spark.
[They both draw their swords.
I' faith, your swagger moves me not a whit!
[They cross swords.
Davenant [rushing between them.
How now, my lords! Peace! peace! and instantly!
Rochester [fencing.]Nay, peace is well, my friend, but war is better!