Henry. I fancy, the first real good ever produced by gaming; our winning is but a decoy, its joys, built upon the grief of others, and our losses stop but in ruin, or dishonour.
Tall. May be so; but, as I set out a young pigeon, I'll die an old rook.
Sir J. B. But how shall I get this rook [To Lackland.] out of my pigeon-house?
Colonel E. Ah, pauvre Lackland! I ave procure de commission for you, in my regiment.
Lack. Thank you, Colonel, but while I can raise the price of a drumstick, I'll never draw a sword against my country.
Sir J. B. What!—your hand, my Briton!—you shall never want a nail for your hat, in my parlour, at dinner time—you shall post my books, and take the whip hand of my lady's gig on a Sunday.
Lack. Drive a gig! My dear dad, you shall rattle up in your vis-a-vis, to the astonishment of all Garlick Hill.
Sir J. B. My dearee and I ride, side by side, in a vis-a-vis! ha! ha! ha!
Tall. Yes, and if you whip your gig down to Yorkshire, I'll mount her ladyship upon Whirligig, and, Sir Jackey, my lad, up you go again upon Kick-him-Jenny.
Sir J. B. I'll see you astride the dragon, upon Bow steeple first—but now I'll invite you all to the British Lion, where French claret shall receive the zest of English hospitality—Eh, my Antigallican son-in-law?