Foretop. My Lord, I have done what I defy any Prince in Europe to out-do; I have made you a Perriwig so long, and so full of Hair, it will serve you for a Hat and Cloak in all Weathers.
Lord Fop. Then thou hast made me thy Friend to Eternity: Come, comb it out.
Young Fash. Well, Lory, What do'st think on't? A very friendly Reception from a Brother after Three Years Absence!
Lory. Why, Sir, 'tis your own Fault; we seldom care for those that don't love what we love: if you wou'd creep into his Heart, you must enter into his Pleasures—Here you have stood ever since you came in, and have not commended any one thing that belongs to him.
Young Fash. Nor never shall, while they belong to a Coxcomb.
Lory. Then, Sir, you must be content to pick a hungry Bone.
Young Fash. No, Sir, I'll crack it, and get to the Marrow before I have done.
Lord Fop. Gad's Curse! Mr. Foretop, you don't intend to put this upon me for a full Perriwig?
Fore. Not a full one, my Lord! I don't know what your Lordship may please to call a full one, but I have cramm'd twenty Ounces of Hair into it.