Stro. A Pumice-stone is not half so dry as that old Huncks.
Con. Say ye so, introth?
Stro. Take this from me. If the least Smoke shou’d chance to fly out of his House, he strait allarms the Town, exclaims against Heaven and Earth, that he’s undone, and ruin’d for ever!—— I’ll tell ye: whene’re he goes to Bed he tyes a Bladder at his Nose.
Con. What for?
Stro. For fear of losing part of his Soul when he’s asleep.
Con. And doesn’t he plug up his lower Bung-hole too, lest any shou’d steal out that way?
Stro. ’Tis civil to believe me, since I do you.
Con. Why, truly, I do believe ye.
Stro. Did you never hear, how it goes to the Soul of him to pour out the Water he has once wash’d his hands in?
Con. Do’st think, Boy, we shall be able to squeeze out a swinging sum of Money of this old Gripes, to purchase our Freedom with?