1 Waiter. She's done it—here comes the poor beau!
Enter Lackland and Mrs. Casey.
Mrs. Casey. Why, I tell you, Sir Harry Bisque's valet has locked up all his master's baggage in it, and you can have that chamber no more.
Lack. I'll ruin your house—no more carriages—I'll bring no more coronets about your doors, to inquire after me, madam—by Heaven, I'll ruin your house!
Mrs. Casey. Ay, my house may be ruined, indeed, if I haven't money to pay my wine merchant. I'll tell you what, my honest lad, I've no notion of folks striving to keep up the gentleman, when they cannot support it; and when people are young and strong, can't see any disgrace in taking up a brown musket, or the end of a sedan chair, or—a knot—[Looking at his Shoulders.] any thing better than bilking me, or spunging upon my customers, and flashing it away in their old clothes.
Lack. See when you'll get such a customer as I was! Haven't I left the mark of a dice box upon every table?—was there a morning I didn't take a sandwich? or a day passed, without my drinking my four bottles?
Mrs Casey. Four bottles! But how many did you pay for?
Lack. Never mind that, that's my affair—By Heaven, madam, I'll ruin your house!—d'ye hear? [Calling.] Carry my baggage over to the Lily.
Mrs. Casey. Ay, take his baggage upon a china plate, for it's a nice affair.
Lack. Hey, my baggage!