Man. Thou wouldst save from hanging at the expense of a shilling
     only.

     Ald. Nay, nay, but Captain, you are like enough to tell me——­

     Man. Truth, which you wont care to hear; therefore you had better
     go talk with somebody else.

Ald. No, I know nobody can inform me better of some young wit or spendthrift, who has a good dipped seat and estate in Middlesex, Hertfordshire, Essex, or Kent; any of these would serve my turn; now if you know of such an one, and would but help——­

     Man. You to finish his ruin.

     Ald. I’ faith you should have a snip——­

     Man. Of your nose, you thirty in the hundred rascal; would you
     make me your squire-setter?

     (Takes him by the nose.)

Two lovers, Lord Plausible and Novel, have the following dialogue about their chances of success with a certain lady who is wooed by both.

     Novel. Prithee, prithee, be not impertinent, my lord; some of you
     lords are such conceited, well assured impertinent rogues.

     Plausible. And you noble wits are so full of shamming and
     drollery, one knows not where to have you seriously.

     Nov. Prithee, my lord, be not an ass.  Dost thou think to get her
     from me?  I have had such encouragements—­

     Plau. I have not been thought unworthy of ’em.

     Nov. What? not like mine!  Come to an eclaircissement, as I said.

     Plau. Why, seriously then; she told me Viscountess sounded
     prettily.

     Nov. And me, that Novel was a name she would sooner change hers
     for, than any title in England.

     Plau. She has commended the softness and respectfulness of my
     behaviour.

     Nov. She has praised the briskness of my raillery in all things,
     man.

     Plau. The sleepiness of my eyes she liked.

     Nov. Sleepiness! dulness, dulness.  But the fierceness of mine she
     adored.

     Plau. The brightness of my hair she liked.

     Nov. Brightness! no the greasiness, I warrant!  But the blackness
     and lustre of mine she admires.

     Plau. The gentleness of my smile.

     Nov. The subtilty of my leer.

     Plau. The clearness of my complexion.

     Nov. The redness of my lips.

     Plau. The whiteness of my teeth.

     Nov. My jaunty way of picking them.

     Plau. The sweetness of my breath.

Nov. Ha! ha! nay there she abused you, ’tis plain; for you know what Manly said:  the sweetness of your pulvillio she might mean; but for your breath! ha! ha! ha!  Your breath is such, man, that nothing but tobacco can perfume; and your complexion nothing could mend but the small-pox.

CHAPTER IX.