Sir J. B. Who, Doll? Yes, Doll's a dev'lish fine girl, and I shall give fourscore thousand pounds with her.
Lack. What!—[Aside.] This may prove a good hit—but such a vulgar family!—Hearkye—pray—[With Haughtiness and Contempt.] You've kept shop?
Sir J. B. Fifteen years—the Grasshopper, on Garlick Hill.
Lack. And you sold raisins, and—
Sir J. B. Yes, I did, and figs too.
Lady B. D'ye hear him?
Lack. [Aside.] Hem! Yes, I'll marry her—a dowdy—he's a seller of figs—yet, fourscore thousand—
Sir J. B. And yet, do you know——
Lack. [Puts him back gently.] Softly—Ma'am, [To Miss Dolly Bull.]—upon my soul, you're a very fine creature!
Miss Dolly B. Sir! [Aside.] Lord, I like him, vastly!