John. Master’s favourite mare, Daisy, madam—poor thing——
Pick. (alarmed) What—how—any thing the matter with Daisy? I would not part with her for——
John. Aye, sir quite done up—won’t fetch five pounds at the next fair.
Miss P. This dunce’s ignorance distracts me—come along, Susan.
[Exeunt Miss Pickle and Susan.
Pick. Why, what can it be what the devil ails her?
John. Why, sir, the long and the short of the whole affair, is as how—he’s cut me too all across the face—mercy I did not lose my eyes.
Pick. This cursed fellow will drive me mad—the mare, you scoundrel, the mare.
John. Yes, sir, the mare—then too, my shins—master Salve, the surgeon, says I must ’noint ’em wi’——
Pick. Plague on your shins—you dog—what is the matter with the mare?