Job. No, I won't. [Bur pauses.] No, I tell you.—
[Exit Bur.
How proud I was of that waistcoat five years ago!—I little thought what would happen now, when I sat in it, at the top of my table, with all my neighbours to celebrate the day;—there was Collop on one side of me, and his wife on the other; and my daughter Mary sat at the farther end;—smiling so sweetly;—like an artful, good for nothing——I shou'dn't like to throw away a waistcoat neither.—I may as well put it on.—Yes—it would be poor spite not to put it on. [Putting his Arms into it.]—She's breaking my heart; but, I'll wear it, I'll wear it. [Buttoning it as he speaks, and crying involuntarily.] It's my child's—She's undutiful,—ungrateful,—barbarous,—but she's my child,—and she'll never work me another.
Enter Bur.
Bur. Here's another waistcoat, but it has laid by so long, I think it's damp.
Job. I was thinking so myself, Bur; and so——
Bur. Eh—what, you've got on the old one? Well, now, I declare, I'm glad of that. Here's your coat. [Putting it on him.]—'Sbobs! this waistcoat feels a little damp, about the top of the bosom.
Job. [Confused.] Never mind, Bur, never mind.—A little water has dropt on it; but it won't give me cold, I believe.
[A noise without.
Bur. Heigh! they are playing up old Harry below! I'll run, and see what's the matter. Make haste after me, do, now!