Art. Really, Sir, ’tis impossible to innumerate all your noble Acts that I have been Spectator of.—— [Aside.] ’Tis this Belly of mine creates me all this Plagues. My Ears must bear this Burden, for fear my Teeth shou’d want Work; and to every Lye he tells, I must swear to.
Pyr. What was I going to say?———
Art. O, Sir, I know your meaning.—— ’Twas a noble Exploit; I remember’t very well.
Pyr. What was’t?
Art. Whatever you perform’d, was so.
Pyr. Ha’ ye a Table-Book here?
Art. D’ye want one, Sir?—— Here’s a Pencil too.
Pyr. Thou’st ingeniously accommodated thy Sentiments to mine.
Art. O, ’tis my Duty to adapt my Manners to your Nod, and always keep ’em within the compass of your Commands.
Pyr. Well, how many can you remember?