Sir Geo. This rascal, I believe, doesn't know I'm Sir George Thunder. Winds, still variable, blow my affairs right athwart each other.—To know what's become of my runagate son Harry,—and there my rich lady niece, pressing and squeezing up the noble plumage of our illustrious family in her little mean quaker bonnet. But I must up to town after—'Sblood, when I catch my son Harry!—Oh, here's John Dory.
Enter John Dory.
Have you taken the places in the London coach for me?
John. Hahoy! your honour, is that yourself?
Sir Geo. No, I'm beside myself—heard any thing of my son?—
John. What's o'clock?
Sir Geo. What do you talk of clocks or timepieces—All glasses, reck'ning, and log-line, are run mad with me.
John. If it's two, your son is at this moment walking with Lady Amaranth in her garden.
Sir Geo. With Lady Amaranth!
John. If half after, they're cast anchor to rest themselves amongst the posies; if three, they're got up again; if four, they're picking a bit of cramm'd fowl; and, if half after, they're picking their teeth, and cracking walnuts over a bottle of Calcavella.