Sir Cred. Well, ’twas the lovingst Tit:—but Grass and Hay, she’s gone—where be her Shoes, Curry?
Cur. Here, Sir, her Skin went for good Ale at Branford. Gives him the Shoes.
Sir Cred. Ah, how often has she carry’d me upon these Shoes to Mother Jumbles; thou remember’st her handsome Daughter, and what pure Ale she brew’d; between one and t’other my Rent came short home there; but let that pass too, and hang sorrow, as thou sayst, I have something else to think on. Takes his things out, lays them upon the Table.
And, Curry, as soon as I am drest, go you away to St. Clement’s Church-yard, to Jackson the Cobler there.
Cur. What, your Dog-tutor, Sir?
Sir Cred. Yes, and see how my Whelp proves, I put to him last Parliament.
Cur. Yes, Sir.
Enter Leander, and starts back seeing Sir Cred.
Sir Cred. And ask him what Gamesters come to the Ponds now adays, and what good Dogs.
Cur. Yes, Sir.