Wildfire. Split me, but I believe it is—yes, it is—it is by Jupiter—it's Jack Broughton with the Mob at his Heels, death what a figure he cuts! Let's step aside, and not pretend to know him.
(Enter JACK BROUGHTON dress'd fantastically)
Mob. Hurra! Hurra! Make room for the French Gentleman.
1st Mob. Mounsieur, Mounsieur, what will you dine upon the haunch of a Frog today?
2nd Mob. Mounsieur, what was you taken Prisoner?
Jack. Ma foi, voila, un droll de Paris—English Manners.
Mob. Hurra! Hurra!
Jack. Hey Bourguignon, La Fleur, Hector, this fellow has picked my Pocket here.
Pickpocket. I pick your pocket! I scorn your Words, ram my Eyes, what do you mean Mounsieur? I believe I've as much Money in my pocket as you, for all your Bag Mounsieur. Come, now, ram my Eyes, will you box?
Jack. English Liberty in Perfection! The fellow puts his hand in my Pocket, whips out my Handkerchief, and when I tell him he's a Fripon, the Scoundrel cries, "Ram my Eyes will you Box."