Enter Clown.
Lap. Here comes my Servant; Sir, Galoshio,
Has not his name for nought, he will be trode upon:
What says my Printer now?
Clow. Here's your last Proof, Sir.
You shall have perfect Books now in a twinkling.
Lap. These marks are ugly.
Clow. He says, Sir, they're proper:
Blows should have marks, or else they are nothing worth.
La. But why a Peel-crow here?
Clow. I told 'em so Sir:
A scare-crow had been better.
Lap. How slave? look you, Sir,
Did not I say, this Whirrit, and this Bob,
Should be both Pica Roman.
Clow. So said I, Sir, both Picked Romans,
And he has made 'em Welch Bills,
Indeed I know not what to make on 'em.
Lap. Hay-day; a Souse, Italica?