Underp. Consider my beautiful row of teeth.
Plot. My balmy breath.
Underp. The strong joints of my back.
Plot. My erect stature.
Underp. My long tail.
Town. Such a contest of beauty! How shall I decide it?
Plot. Take me out of my shell, madam, and I'll make you a present of the kernel.
Underp. Then I must be upon a level with him, and be uncrocodil'd.
Town. Keep both of you your shapes, and we are in no fear of a surprize from the doctor: If you uncase, his presence would undo us. Sure never was any thing so unlucky—I hear his foot-steps; quick to your posts.
[Mummy and Crocodile run to their places.