Aim. Ladies, shall I beg leave for my servant to wait on you, for he understands pictures very well.
Mrs. Sul. Sir, we understand originals, as well as he does pictures, so he may come along.
[Exeunt Dorinda and Aimwell, Mrs. Sullen
and Archer—Scrub sits down.
Enter Foigard.
Foig. 'Save you, master Scrub.
Scrub. Sir, I won't be saved your way——I hate a priest, I abhor the French, and I defy the devil—Sir, I'm a bold Briton, and will spill the last drop of my blood to keep out popery and slavery.
Foig. Master Scrub, you would put me down in politics, and so I would be speaking with Mrs. Gipsey.
Scrub. Good Mr. Priest, you can't speak with her; she's sick, sir; she's gone abroad, sir; she's—dead two months ago, sir.
Enter Gipsey.
Gip. How now, impudence! How dare you talk so saucily to the doctor? Pray, sir, don't take it ill; for the common people of England are not so civil to strangers, as——