Scrub. You lie, you lie:—'tis the common people, such as you are, that are civilest to strangers.
Gip. Sirrah, I have a good mind to—Get you out, I say!
Scrub. I won't!
Gip. You won't, sauce-box!—Pray, doctor, what is the captain's name that came to your inn last night?
Scrub. The captain! ah, the devil, there she hampers me again;—the captain has me on one side, and the priest on t'other:—So between the gown and the sword, I have a fine time on't.
Gip. What, sirrah, won't you march?
Scrub. No, my dear, I won't march—but I'll walk:—And I'll make bold to listen a little too.
[Goes behind the Side Scene, and listens.
Gip. Indeed, doctor, the count has been barbarously treated, that's the truth on't.
Foig. Ah, Mrs. Gipsey, upon my shoul, now, gra, his complainings would mollify the marrow in your bones, and move the bowels of your commiseration; he veeps, and he dances, and he fistles, and he swears, and he laughs, and he stamps, and he sings: in conclusion, joy, he's afflicted, à la François, and a stranger, would not know whider to cry or to laugh with him.