Shoe. Your Lordship may please to feel what you think fit; but that Shoe does not hurt you—I think I understand my Trade——
Lord Fop. Now by all that's great and powerful, thou art an incomprehensible Coxcomb; but thou makest good Shoes, and so I'll bear with thee.
Shoe. My Lord, I have work'd for half the People of Quality in Town these Twenty Years; and 'tis very hard I should not know when a Shoe hurts, and when it don't.
Lord Fop. Well, pr'ythee, begone about thy Business.
[Exit Shoe.
[To the Hosier.] Mr. Mend Legs, a Word with you; the Calves of the Stockings are thicken'd a little too much. They make my Legs look like a Chairman's——
Mend. My Lord, my thinks they look mighty well.
Lord Fop. Ay, but you are not so good a Judge of those things as I am, I have study'd them all my Life; therefore pray let the next be the thickness of a Crawn-piece less——[Aside.] If the Town takes notice my Legs are fallen away, 'twill be attributed to the Violence of some new Intrigue.
To the Perriwig-maker.] Come, Mr. Foretop, let me see what you have done, and then the Fatigue of the Morning will be over.