Gib. A pot of ceruse, my child, that I took out of a lady's under petticoat pocket.
Cher. What, Mr. Gibbet, do you think, that I paint?
Gib. Why, you jade, your betters do; I am sure, the lady that I took it from had a coronet upon her handkerchief.——Here, take my cloak, and go, secure the premises.
Cher. I will secure them. [Exit.
Bon. But, harkye, where's Hounslow and Bagshot?
Gib. They'll be here to-night.
Bon. D'ye know of any other gentlemen o' the pad on this road?
Gib. No.
Bon. I fancy, that I have two that lodge in the house just now.
Gib. The devil! how d'ye smoak them?