Lack. Me!—Oh, I haven't an acre, nor, may be, a mansion in Herefordshire—nor, perhaps, I haven't a house in Portman Square.
Miss Dolly B. Portman Square!
Lack. Without a guinea in the funds—perhaps, at this moment, I haven't half a crown in the world, I'm such a miserable dog, ha! ha! ha!
Miss Dolly B. Ha! ha! ha! Estate in Herefordshire!—Oh, Lud! then we can make, at least—ay, twenty hogsheads of cyder.
Lack. Make cyder—hem! Oh, you elegant——[Aside.] Garlick Hill!
Miss Dolly B. I've a monstrous mind—Now answer me one question, that's all—If I should consent to run off with you, would you leave me standing here, for great travelling boots, or your dancing pumps?
Lack. Me! Not for the Pigot diamond!
Miss Dolly B. No?—come along.
Lack. Where?
Miss Dolly B. Lord, don't you know?