Jack. Gentlemen, I believe you take me for the Fire Eater, I can't swallow liquid Flames; can't we have the coffee and the Liquor?
Wildfire. There's more trouble with one Fellow that won't drink, than with fifty that will, off with it I say.
Sir Robert. Drink Boy, you're fairly hunted.
Jack. (Drinks) Vive l'Amour.
Wildfire. And so Monsieur Abbé, you say that the French are making great Armaments.
Abbé. Ver great Marine, Monsieur, ver great Marine.
Jack. The French are a very politic Nation; they never make a Treaty, but with an Intent to break it, when it suits their Conveniency—so you'll find they will at last give Laws, as Fashions to Europe.
Wildfire. Never fear, you'll find that John Bull will be too many for Louis Baboon any day in the year. Let 'em land here, we'll shew 'em what a figure Slaves will cut in a Land of Liberty. Come now, I'll give you a Toast—Monsieur need not drink it, but as he began the subject he must excuse my National Partiality—here's Old England for ever.
All. Hurra! Hurra! Hurra!
Jack. L'Angleterre.