Val. Trust to me.
Har. Now, Master Jacques, you must clean my carriage.
Jac. Wait a moment; this is to the coachman. (Jacques puts on his coat.) You say …
Har. That you must clean my carriage, and have my horses ready to drive to the fair.
Jac. Your horses! Upon my word, Sir, they are not at all in a condition to stir. I won't tell you that they are laid up, for the poor things have got nothing to lie upon, and it would not be telling the truth. But you make them keep such rigid fasts that they are nothing but phantoms, ideas, and mere shadows of horses.
Har. They are much to be pitied. They have nothing to do.
Jac. And because they have nothing to do, must they have nothing to eat? It would be much better for them, poor things, to work much and eat to correspond. It breaks my heart to see them so reduced; for, in short, I love my horses; and when I see them suffer, it seems as if it were myself. Every day I take the bread out of my own mouth to feed them; and it is being too hard-hearted, Sir, to have no compassion upon one's neighbour.
Har. It won't be very hard work to go to the fair.
Jac. No, Sir. I haven't the heart to drive them; it would go too much against my conscience to use the whip to them in the state they are in. How could you expect them to drag a carriage? They have not even strength enough to drag themselves along.
Val. Sir, I will ask our neighbour, Picard, to drive them; particularly as we shall want his help to get the supper ready.