Thomas. I ask pardon, sir; I thought it was the New-York Journal; but I see it is Mr. Child's Daily Advertiser.
Loveyet. A plague on his aristocratic intelligence!—Begone, you vile foe to American Liberty, or I'll—
[Exit Thomas.
Enter Trueman.
What, my friend Trueman! well, what's the news, eigh?
Trueman. I have not learn'd a single monosyllable, sir.
Loveyet. Nothing concerning this same Constitution there is so much talk about, friend Horace? A miserable Constitution, by the bye. If mine was no better,—ugh, ugh, ugh,—I say, if—ugh, ugh, if my constitution was no better than this same political one, I solemnly swear, as true as I am this day, man and boy, two score and three years, five months, eleven days, six hours, and, and,—[Pulling out his watch.] fifty-nine minutes old; why, I—I—I would,—I don't know what I wou'd not do. Ugh, ugh.
Trueman. Mr. Loveyet, you run on in such a surprising manner with your narrations, imprecations, admirations, and interrogations, that, upon my education, sir, I believe you are approaching to insanity, frenzy, lunacy, madness, distraction,—a man of your age—
Loveyet. Age, sir, age!—And what then, sir, eigh! what then? I'd have you to know, sir, that I shall not have lived forty years till next spring twelvemonth, old as I am; and if my countenance seems to belie me a little or so, why—trouble, concern for the good of my country, sir, and this tyrannical, villainous Constitution have made me look so; but my health is sound, sir; my lungs are good, sir, [Raising his voice.]—ugh, ugh, ugh,—I am neither spindle-shank'd nor crook-back'd, and I can kiss a pretty girl with as good a relish as—ugh, ugh,—ha, ha, ha. A man of five and forty, old, forsooth! ha, ha. My age, truly!—ugh, ugh, ugh.
Trueman. You talk very valiantly, Mr. Loveyet; very valiantly indeed; I dare say now you have temerity and enterprise enough, even at this time of day, to take a wife.