Foss. It is strange, yet certain, that the intellects of the infant depend upon the suppers of the parents. Diet must be prescrib'd.
Town. So the wit of one's posterity is determin'd by the choice of one's cook.
Foss. Right. You may observe how French cooks, with their high ragousts, have contaminated our plain English understandings. Our supper to night is extracted from the best authors. How delightful is this minute of tranquility! my soul is at ease. How happy shalt thou make me! thou shalt bring me the finest boy!
[A knocking at the door,
No mortal shall enter these doors this day. [knocking again.] Oh, it must be the news of poor lady Hippokekoana's death. Poor woman! such is the condition of life, some die, and some are born, and I shall now make some reparation for the mortality of my patients by the fecundity of my wife. My dear thou shalt bring me the finest boy!
Enter footman.
Foot. Sir, here's a seaman from Deptford must needs speak with you.
Foss. Let him come in. One of my retale Indian merchants, I suppose, that always brings me some odd thing.
Enter sailor with a child.
What hast thou brought me, friend, a young drill?
Sail. Look ye d'ye see, master, you know best whether a monkey begot him.