Cam. You will be obeyed. [Exeunt. Lord Hardy waits on him down.
Trim. What's in this song? Ha! don't my eyes deceive me—a bill of three hundred pounds——
"Mr. Cash,
"Pray pay to Mr. William Trim, or bearer, the sum of three hundred pounds, and place it to the account of,
"Sir,
"Your humble servant,
"Thomas Campley."
[Pulling off his hat and bowing.] Your very humble servant, good Mr. Campley. Ay, this is poetry—this is a song indeed! Faith, I'll set it, and sing it myself. Pray pay to Mr. William Trim—so far in recitativo—three hundred [singing ridiculously]—hun—dred—hundred—hundred thrice repeated, because 'tis three hundred pounds—I love repetitions in music, when there's a good reason for it,—po—unds after the Italian manner. If they'd bring me such sensible words as these, I'd outstrip all your composers for the music prize. This was honestly done of Mr. Campley, though I have carried him many a purse from my master when he was ensign to our Company in Flanders——
Enter Lord Hardy.
My lord, I am your lordship's humble servant.
Ld. H. Sir, your humble servant. But pray, my good familiar friend, how come you to be so very much my humble servant all of a sudden?
Trim. I beg pardon, dear sir, my lord, I am not your humble servant.
Ld. H. No!
Trim. Yes, my lord, I am, but not as you mean; but I am—I am, my lord—in short, I'm overjoyed.