Honeyw. Why, madam, they do—occasionally serve in the Fleet, madam. A dangerous service.
Miss Rich. I'm told so. And I own, it has often surprised me, that, while we have had so many instances of bravery there, we have had so few of wit at home to praise it.
Honeyw. I grant, madam, that our poets have not written as our soldiers have fought; but, they have done all they could, and Hawke or Amherst could do no more.
Miss Rich. I'm quite displeased when I see a fine subject spoiled by a dull writer.
Honeyw. We should not be so severe against dull writers, madam. It is ten to one, but the dullest writer exceeds the most rigid French critic who presumes to despise him.
Follower. Damn the French, the parle vous, and all that belongs to them.
Miss Rich. Sir!
Honeyw. Ha, ha, ha, honest Mr. Flanigan. A true English officer, madam; he's not contented with beating the French, but he will scold them too.
Miss Rich. Yet, Mr. Honeywood, this does not convince me but that severity in criticism is necessary. It was our first adopting the severity of French taste, that has brought them in turn to taste us.
Bailiff. Taste us! By the Lord, madam, they devour us. Give Monseers but a taste, and I'll be damn'd, but they come in for a bellyful.