LORY.
Egad, sir, I think you’re in the right on’t.—Ho! Mr. What-d’ye-call-’um, will you please to let us in? or are we to be left to grow like willows by your moat side? SERVANT appears at the window with a blunderbuss.
SERVANT.
Well naw, what’s ya’re business?
TOM FASHION.
Nothing, sir, but to wait upon Sir Tunbelly, with your leave.
SERVANT.
To weat upon Sir Tunbelly! why, you’ll find that’s just as Sir Tunbelly pleases.
TOM FASHION.
But will you do me the favour, sir, to know whether Sir Tunbelly pleases or not?
SERVANT.
Why, look you, d’ye see, with good words much may be done. Ralph, go thy ways, and ask Sir Tunbelly if he pleases to be waited upon—and dost hear, call to nurse, that she may lock up Miss Hoyden before the gates open.
TOM FASHION.
D’ye hear, that, Lory?
Enter SIR TUNBELLY CLUMSY, with SERVANTS, armed with guns, clubs, pitchforks, &c.
LORY.
Oh! [Runs behind his master.] O Lord! O Lord! Lord! we are both dead men!
TOM FASHION.
Fool! thy fear will, ruin us. [Aside to LORY.]