Turb. Kill’d, Sir! ever whilst you live, especially those who have the grand Verole; for ’tis not for a Man’s Credit to let the Patient want an Eye or a Nose, or some other thing. I have kill’d ye my five or six dozen a Week—but times are hard.
Brun. I grant ye, Sir, your Poor for Experiment and Improvement of Knowledge: and to say truth, there ought to be such Scavengers as we to sweep away the Rubbish of the Nation. Sir Cred. and Fat seeming in Discourse.
Sir Cred. Nay, an you talk of a Beast, my service to you, Sir— Drinks. Ay, I lost the finest Beast of a Mare in all Devonshire.
Fat D. And I the finest Spaniel, Sir.
Here they all talk together till you come to —purpose, Sir.
Turb. Pray, what News is there stirring?
Brun. Faith, Sir, I am one of those Fools that never regard whether Lewis or Philip have the better or the worst.
Turb. Peace is a great Blessing, Sir, a very great Blessing.
Brun. You are i’th right, Sir, and so my service to you, Sir.
Leyd. Well, Sir, [Stetin] held out nobly, though the Gazettes are various.