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 Ex