Jac. And nothing, but being fuddled, will redeem her Credit.
Guil. Come—fall to, old Boy,—thou art not merry; what, have we none that can give us a Song?
Ant. Oh Sir, we have an Artist aboard I’ll assure you; Signior Cashier, shall I beg the favour of you to shew your Skill?
Pet. Sir, my Wife and I’m at your service.
Guil. Friend, what Language can you sing?
Pet. Oh, Sir, your Singers speak all Languages.
Guil. Say’st thou so, prithee then let’s have a touch of Heathen Greek.
Pet. That you shall, Sir, Sol la me fa sol, &c.
Fran. Hum, I think this is indeed Heathen Greek, I’m sure ‘tis so to me.
Guil. Ay, that may be, but I understand every word on’t.