Enter Servant.
Servant. Sir, Miss Richland is below.
Honeyw. How unlucky! Detain her a moment. We must improve, my good friend, little Mr. Flanigan's appearance first. Here, let Mr. Flanigan have a suit of my clothes—quick—the brown and silver—Do you hear?
Servant. That your honour gave away to the begging gentleman that makes verses, because it was as good as new.
Honeyw. The white and gold then.
Servant. That, your honour, I made bold to sell because it was good for nothing.
Honeyw. Well, the first that comes to hand then. The blue and gold. I believe Mr. Flanigan will look best in blue.
[Exit Flanigan.
Bailiff. Rabbit me, but little Flanigan will look well in anything. Ah, if your honour knew that bit of flesh as well as I do, you'd be perfectly in love with him. There's not a prettier scout in the four counties after a shy-cock than he. Scents like a hound; sticks like a weasel. He was master of the ceremonies to the black queen of Morocco when I took him to follow me. [Re-enter Flanigan.] Heh, ecod, I think he looks so well, that I don't care if I have a suit from the same place for myself.
Honeyw. Well, well, I hear the lady coming. Dear Mr. Twitch, I beg you'll give your friend directions not to speak. As for yourself, I know you will say nothing without being directed.