Tim. Yes, fath, I know Bath; I was there in my. way up. Sir Greg. Huh, Tim; good now, hush! Sir Pen, There's a coffeehouse, you-a place where people drink coffee and tea, and read the news. Sir Greg. Pray, Sir Penurious, how many papers may they take in? Sir Pen. Pha! damn the news! mind the story. Tim! Sir Pen. Pox take you both! I have loft the ftory; -Where did I leave off, hey, you Dick? Tim. About coffee and tea. Sir Pen. Right, you, right! true, true! So, ecod, you knight, I us'd' to breakfast at this coffeehouse every morning; it coft me eight-pence though, and I had always a breakfast at home-no matter for that though! there I breakfasted, you Dick, ecod, at the fame table with lord Tom Truewit- -You have heard of Truewit, you, knight; a droll dog! You, Dick, he told us the ftory, and made us die with laughing. You have heard of Charles the Second, you knight; he was fon of Charles the Firit, king here in England, that was beheaded by Oliver Cromwell: So what does Charles the Second, you knight, do? but he fights Noll at Worceffer, a town you have heard of, not far off: but all would not do, you: ecod, Noll made him fcamper, made him run, take to his heels, you knight. Truewit told us the ftory, made us die with laughing. I always breakfafted at the coffeehoufe; it coft me eight-pence, though I had a breakfast at home-So what does Charles do, but hid himfelf in an oak, an oak-tree, you; in a wood call'd Bofcobel, from two Italian words, Bofco Bello, a fine wood, you; and off he marches: But old Noll would not let him come home; no, fays he, you don't come here.—Lord Tom told us the flory; made us die with laughing; it coft me eight-pence, though I had a breakfast at home. So, you knight, when Noll dy'd, Monk there, you, afterwards Albemarle, in the north, brought him back. So you, the cavaliers, you have heard of them; they were friends to the Stuarts. What did they do, ecod, you Dick? but they put up Charles in a a fign, the royal oak; you have feen such signs at country alehouses: fo, ecod, you, what does a Puritan do-the Puritans were friends to Noll-but he puts up the fign of an owl in the ivy-bufh, and underneath he writes, "This is not the royal oak." You have feen writings under figns, you knight. Upon this, fays the royalists, Ecod this must not be: So, you, what do they do, but, ecod, they profecuted the poor Puritan; but they made -him change his fign though. And, you, Dick, how d'ye think they chang'd? Ecod, he puts up the royal oak, and underneath he writes, "This not the owl in "the ivy bufh." It made us all die with laughing. Lord Tom told the ftory. I always breakfasted at the coffee-houfe, though it coft me eight-pence, and I had a breakfast at home; hey, you knight! what, Dick,, hey! Sir Greg. Good now, good now! wonderful! Tim. A choice tale, fath!. Jenk.. Oh, Sir Penurious is a moft entertaining companion, that must be allow'd.. Sir Greg. Good now, ay, ay, a merry man! But, lack-a-day, would not the young lady choose a little refreshment after her ride! fome tea, or fome Sir Pen. Hey, you knight! No, no; we intend to dine with thee, man. Well, you, Tim, what doft think of thy father-in-law that is-to-be, hey? A jolly cock, you Tim; hey, Dick. But prithee, boy, what doft do with all this tawdry tinfel on? that hat and waistcoat? Trash, knight, trash! more in thy pocket and lefs in thy cloaths; hey, you Dick! Ecod, you, knight,. I'll make you laugh: I went to London, you Dick, laft year, to call in a mortage; and what does me I,. Dick, but take a trip to a coffee-house in St Martin's Lane; in comes a French fellow forty times as fine as Tim, with his muff and parlevous, and his Francés ; and his head, you knight, as white with powder, ecod, you, as a twelfth cake: and who the devil d'ye think, Dick, this might be, hey, you knight? Sir Greg. Good now, an ambaffador, to be fure. Sir Pen. Ecod, you knight, nor better nor worfer than Mynheer Vancaper, a Dutch figure-dancer at the opera-house in the Hay-market. 2.3 Sixr Sir Greg. Wonderful! good now, good now! Sir Pen. Pha! pox, prithee, Tim, nobody dreffes now; all plain; look at me, knight, I am in the tip of the mode; now am I in full drefs; hey, Dick? Jenk. You, Sir, don't want the aids of drefs; but in Mr Gazette, a little regard to that particular is but a neceffary compliment to his mistress. Sir Pen. Stuff, Dick, ftuff! my daughter, knight, has had otherguefs breeding. Hey, you, Suck, come forward. Plain as a pikestaff, knight; all as nature made her; hey, Tim, no flams. Prithee, Tim, off with thy lace, and burn it; 'twill help to buy the licence: 'fhe'll not like thee a bit the better for that ;' hey, Suck! But, you knight; ecod, Dick, a toast and tankard would not be amifs after our walk; hey, you! Sir Greg. Good now, good now! what you will, Sir Penurious. Sir Pen. Ecod, that's hearty, you! but we won't part the young couple, hey. I'll fend Suck fome bread and cheefe in; hey, knight! at her, Tim. Come, Dick; come, you knight Did I ever tell you my courtship, hey, Dick? 'twill make you laugh. Henk. Not as I remember. Sir Greg. Lack-a-day, let's have it. Sir Pen. You know my wife was blind, you, knight, Sir Greg. Good now, wonderful! not I. Sir Pen. Blind as a beetle when I marry'd her, knight; he y Dick! fhe was drown'd in our orchard. Maid Bets, knight, went to market, you, Dick; and wife rambled into the orchard, and foufe dropp'd into the fifh-pond. We found her out next day, but fhe was dead as a herring: no help for that, Dick; buried her though, hey you! She was only daughter to Sir Triftram Muckworm, you; rich enough, you, hey! Ecod, you, what does fhe do, you, but he falls in love with young Sleek, her father's chaplain, hey, you! Upon that, what does me I, but flips on domine's robes, you, pafs'd myfelf upon her for him, and we were tack'd together, you, knight, hey! ecod, though I believe the never liked me; but what fignifies that, hey, Dick! she was was rich, you. But come, let's leave the children together. Sir Greg. Sir, I wait on you. Sir Pen. Nay, pray Sir Greg. Good now, good now, 'tis impoffible. Sir Pen. Pox of ceremony! you, Dick, hey! Ecod, knight, I'll tell you a ftory. One of our ambaffadors in France, you, a devilish polite fellow reckon'd, Dick; ecod, you, what does the king of France do, but, says he, I'll try the manners of this fine gentleman: fo, knight, going into a coach together, the king would lord go first: Oh, an't please your majefty, I can't indeed; you, hey, Dick! Upon which, what does me the king, but he takes his arm thus, you, Dick; am I king of France, or you? is it my coach or your's? and fo pushes him in thus; hey, Dick! have my Sir Greg. Good now, good now! he, he, he! Sir Pen. Ecod, Dick, I believe I have made a miftake here; I fhould have gone in firft; hey, Dick! Knight, ecod, you, beg pardon. Yes, your coach, not mine; your house, not mine; hey, knight! Sir Greg. Wonderful? A merry man, Mr Jenkins. [Exeunt the two Knights and Jenk. Tim. Father and coufin are gone, fath and fole! Jenny. I fancy my lover is a little puzzled how to begin. Tim. How-fath and fole, I don't know what to fay. How d'ye do, mifs Suck? Jenny. Pretty well, thank you. Tim. You have had a choice walk. day, fath and fole. Jenny. Yes, the day's well enough. Tim. Is your houfe a good way off here? Tim. That's a good long walk, fath! 'Tis a rare Jenny. I make nothing of it, and back again. Tim. Like enow. Jenny. [Whiftles, [Sings. Tim. You have a rare pipe of your own, mifs. Fanny. I can fing loud enough, if I have a mind; but father don't love finging. Tim. Like enow. [Whifles. Jenny. Jenny. And Ian't overfond of whiftling. Tim. Hey! ay, like enow: and I am a bitter bad finger. to Jenny. Hey! ay, like enough. Tim. Pray, mifs Suck, did ever any body make love you before? Jenny. Before when? Tim. Before now. Jenny. What if I won't tell you? Tim. Why then you must let it alone, fath and fole. Jenny. Like enough. Tim. Pray, mifs Suck, did your father tell you any thing? Jenny. About what? Tim. About F. Jenny. What should a tell? Tim. Tell! why, as how I and father was comea-wooing. Jenny. Who? Tim. Why, you. Could you like me for a fweetheart, Mifs Suck? Jenny. I don't know. Tim. Mayhap fomebody may ha' got your good-will already? Jenny. And what then? Tim. Then! hey, I don't know. But if fancy me Jenny. For what? Tim. For your true lover.. Jenny. Well, what then? Tim. Then! hey! why, fath, we may chance to be married, if the old folks agree together. Jenny. And fuppofe I won't be married to you! Jenny. You are in a woundy hurry, methinks. Wait. There's a woman without wants to speak with Mr Timothy Gazette. Tim. That's I. I am glad on't.. Well, Mifs Suck, your |