Paramount. For the spawn of him, and the similarity's sake, I'm apt to think you've been abusing your own cousin all this while.
Charley. God forbid, my Lord, I should be any how allied to him.
Paramount. I fancy, Charley, if the truth was known, your uncle did not mention you in his will, and forgot to leave you the mansion-house and farm at Gallows-hill. Am I right, Charley?
Charley. You're right, my Lord, upon my honour—but—
Paramount. I thought so—Well, never mind—Ha, ha, ha, who are those two fat fellows there, that go in such state?
Charley. I suppose them to be a couple of Livery Tallow-chandlers, my Lord, by their big bellies.
Paramount. Ha, ha,—what work the guards would make amongst them—but they must not be called yet.—And who are those other two behind 'em?
Charley. This is Mr. Hone, and the other Mr. Strap, a couple of the Corporation Barbers, forsooth.
Paramount. Ha, ha, ha, I thought they had been a couple of Dukes;—and that one—who is he with the monstrous wig?
Charley. That is Mr. Alderman Pipeshank, in Newgate-street.