Foxchase. I am just come smoaking hot from Epsom; I was after the hounds all day yesterday, the rarest Sport in Nature—away swept the Dogs, and old Reynard before 'em like a cunning son of a bitch as he was, led us a Devil's Dance after his old rank Tail—Silverlocks and I perform'd Wonders. Hillo! Ho! Cleared everything. (Lolls on his other Shoulder)
Jack. Nay, but Gentlemen—
Foxchase. I'll tell you who was our Party—you know Bob Nankeen—there was he—and Jack Oakstir—and Billy Thachm, and Harry Lappelle, and myself, and so we drank like Souls all night, and then I scamper'd up to Town like Lightning—
Jack. Gentlemen, I think I have read in one of your English Gazettes of a Dancing School for grown People. I cou'd wish Gentlemen you wou'd both profit of the Occasion.
Wildfire. Come, you've kept the Farce up long enough. Shall we dine together?
Jack. I am to dine in particular today.
St. Louis. I put on your Wig, Sir.
Jack. Allons, St. Louis. (Sits down)
Wildfire. What's that, a Wig? (Jack puts on a mask while his man powders him) Wounds what a fellow it is. Egad he's in earnest all this while. He has forgot the plainess and honesty of an Englishman without having the outside Shew of a Frenchman.
Foxchase. Come along man, let's leave the fellow to himself.