Flut. A fair tug, by Jupiter—between Duty and Pleasure!—Pleasure beats, and off we go, Iö! triumphe
[Exit Flutter.
Scene changes to an Auction Room.—Busts, Pictures, &c. &c.
Enter Silvertongue with three Puffers.
Silv. Very well,—very well.—This morning will be devoted to curiosity; my sale begins to-morrow at eleven. But, Mrs. Fagg, if you do no better than you did in Lord Fillagree's sale, I shall discharge you.—You want a knack terribly: and this dress—why, nobody can mistake you for a Gentlewoman.
Fag. Very true, Mr. Silvertongue; but I can't dress like a Lady upon Half-a-crown a day, as the saying is.—If you want me to dress like a Lady, you must double my pay.——Double or quits, Mr. Silvertongue.
Silv.——Five Shillings a day! what a demand! Why, Woman, there are a thousand Parsons in the town, who don't make Five Shillings a day; though they preach, pray, christen, marry, and bury, for the Good of the Community.—Five Shillings a day!—why, 'tis the pay of a Lieutenant in a marching Regiment, who keeps a Servant, a Mistress, a Horse; fights, dresses, ogles, makes love, and dies upon Five Shillings a day.
Fag. Oh, as to that, all that's very right. A Soldier should not be too fond of life; and forcing him to do all these things upon Five Shillings a day, is the readiest way to make him tir'd on't.
Silv. Well, Mask, have you been looking into the Antiquaries?—have you got all the terms of art in a string—aye?
Mask. Yes, I have: I know the Age of a Coin by the taste; and can fix the Birth-day of a Medal, Anno Mundi or Anno Domini, though the green rust should have eaten up every character. But you know, the brown suit and the wig I wear when I personate the Antiquary, are in Limbo.
Silv. Those you have on, may do.