Job. It is, Sir Simon. I never blush'd at my name, till your son made me blush for yours.
Sir Simon. Mr. Thornberry—I—I heard something of my son's—a—little indiscretion, some mornings ago.
Job. Did you, Sir Simon? you never sent to me about it; so, I suppose, the news reach'd you at one of the hours you don't set apart for justice.
Sir Simon. This is a——a very awkward business, Mr. Thornberry. Something like a hump back;—we can never set it quite straight, so we must bolster it.
Job. How do you mean, Sir Simon?
Sir Simon. Why—'tis a—a disagreeable affair, and—we—must hush it up.
Job. Hush it up! a justice compound with a father, to wink at his child's injuries! if you and I hush it up so, Sir Simon, how shall we hush it up here? [Striking his Breast.] In one word, will your son marry my daughter?
Sir Simon. What! my son marry the daughter of a brazier!
Job. He has ruined the daughter of a brazier.—If the best lord in the land degrades himself by a crime, you can't call his atonement for it a condescension.
Sir Simon. Honest friend—I don't know in what quantities you may sell brass at your shop; but when you come abroad, and ask a baronet to marry his son to your daughter, damn me, if you ar'n't a wholesale dealer!