Scrub. I should like virtue best, because it is more durable than beauty; for virtue holds good with some women long and many a day after they have lost it.
Arch. In the country, I grant ye, where no woman's virtue is lost, till a bastard be found.
Scrub. Ay, could I bring her to a bastard, I should have her all to myself; but I dare not put it upon that lay, for fear of being sent for a soldier.—Pray, brother, how do you gentlemen in London like that same pressing act?
Arch. Very ill, brother Scrub;——'Tis the worst that ever was made for us;—formerly I remembered the good days when we could dun our masters for our wages, and if they refused to pay us, we could have a warrant to carry them before a justice: but now if we talk of eating, they have a warrant for us and carry us before three justices.
Scrub. And to be sure we go, if we talk of eating; for the justices won't give their own servants a bad example. Now this is my misfortune—I dare not speak in the house, while that jade, Gipsey, dings about like a fury——once I had the better end of the staff.
Arch. And how comes the change now?
Scrub. Why, the mother of all this mischief is a priest.
Arch. A priest!
Scrub. Ay, a damn'd son of a whore of Babylon, that came over hither to say grace to the French officers, and eat up our provisions—There's not a day goes over his head without a dinner or supper in this house.
Arch. How came he so familiar in the family?