Cha. Then a Fool for Diversion is out of Fashion, I find.

Marpl. Yes, without it be a mimicking Fool, and they are Darlings every where; but prithee introduce me.

Cha. Well, on Condition you’ll give us a true Account how you came by that Mourning Nose, I will.

Marpl. I’ll do it.

Cha. Sir George, here’s a Gentleman has a passionate Desire to kiss your Hand.

Sir Geo. Oh, I honour Men of the Sword, and I presume this Gentleman is lately come from Spain or Portugal—­by his Scars.

Marpl. No really, Sir George, mine sprung from civil Fury, happening last Night into the Groom-Porters—­I had a strong Inclination to go ten Guineas with a sort of a, sort of a—­kind of a Milk Sop, as I thought:  A Pox of the Dice he flung out, and my Pockets being empty as Charles knows they sometimes are, he prov’d a surly North-Britain, and broke my Face for my Deficiency.

Sir Geo. Ha! ha! and did not you draw?

Marpl. Draw, Sir, why, I did but lay my Hand upon my Sword to make a swift Retreat, and he roar’d out.  Now the Deel a Ma sol, Sir, gin ye touch yer Steel, Ise whip mine through yer Wem.

Sir Geo. Ha, ha, ha,

Cha. Ha, ha, ha, ha, fase was the Word, so you walk’d off, I suppose.

Marp. Yes, for I avoid fighting, purely to be serviceable to my Friends you know—­

Sir Geo. Your Friends are much oblig’d to you, Sir, I hope you’ll rank me in that Number.

Marpl. Sir George, a Bow from the side Box, or to be seen in your Chariot, binds me ever yours.

Sir Geo. Trifles, you may command ’em when you please.

Cha. Provided he may command you—­

Marpl. Me! why I live for no other purpose—­Sir George, I have the Honour to be carest by most of the reigning Toasts of the Town, I’ll tell ’em you are the finest Gentleman—­

Sir Geo. No, no, prithee let me alone to tell the Ladies—­my Parts—­can you convey a Letter upon Occasion, or deliver a Message with an Air of Business, Ha!

Marpl. With the Assurance of a Page and the Gravity of a Statesman.

Sir Geo. You know Miranda!

Marpl. What, my Sister Ward? Why, her Guardian is mine, we are Fellow Sufferers:  Ah! he is a covetous, cheating, sanctify’d Curmudgeon; that Sir Francis Gripe is a damn’d old—­

Char. I suppose, Friend, you forget that he is my Father—­

Marpl. I ask your Pardon, Charles, but it is for your sake I hate him.  Well, I say, the World is mistaken in him, his Out-side Piety, makes him every Man’s Executor, and his Inside Cunning, makes him every Heir’s Jaylor.  Egad, Charles, I’m half persuaded that thou’rt some Ward too, and never of his getting:  For thou art as honest a Debauchee as ever Cuckolded Man of Quality.