Charles had now seized his wretched publisher by the neck-band, and shook him so roughly that the latter, fearing for his teeth, the most extravagant purchase in his mean little life, began to whine.
"A gentleman—a gentleman——"
"Well, you misbegotten toad, I never supposed ’twas a midwife."
"No, certainly not, Mr. Lovely, a gentleman—a gentleman."
"His name, dog."
"I don't know."
"Yes, you do, answer will you."
"He told me ’twas Amor."
"I knew it, I knew it, you sneaking son of a b——, and he gave you twenty guineas to print the verses."
"No, not twenty, only ten, Mr. Lovely, on my soul."