ACT I. SCENE I.
Sir Harry discover'd dressing; and Shrimp attending.
Sir Har. Where had you been last Night, you drunken Dog, that you cou'dn't take care of me when I was drunk.
Shr. I happen'd, Sir, to meet with some very honest Gentlemen, that have the Honour to wait upon other Gentlemen, where Wit and Humour brighten'd to that degree, we pass'd about the Glass, 'till we lost our Senses.
Sir Har. Wit, you Rascal! Have you Scoundrels the impudence to suppose your selves reasonable Creatures?
Shr. Sir, we are as much below Learning, indeed, as our Masters are above it; but why mayn't a Servant have as good natural Parts?
Sir Har. Mend your Manners, Sirrah; or you shall serve the Queen.
Shr. Ev'ry Man ought to mend his Manners, Sir, that pretends to a Place at Court; but the Queen's mightily oblig'd to some People.—Has a Gentleman an impudent rakish Footman, not meaning my self, Sir, that wears his Linen, fingers his Money, and lies with his Mistress;—You Dog, you shall serve the Queen.—Has a Tradesman a Fop Prentice, that airs out his Horses, and heats his Wife, or an old Puritan a graceless Son, that runs to the Play-House instead of the Meeting, they are threathen'd with the Queen's Service; so that Her Majesty's good Subjects, drink her Health, wish success to her Arms, and send her all the Scoundrels i'the Nation.
Sir Har. Fellows that han't sense to value a Civil Employment are necessary to front an Army, whose thick Sculls may repulse the first Fury of the Enemy's Cannon Bullets.
Shr. I hope, then, the English are so wise to let the Dutch march foremost.—But why, Sir, shou'd you Gentlemen ingross all the Pleasures o'Life, and not allow us poor Dogs to imitate you in our own Sphere;—You wear lac'd Coats; We lac'd Liv'ries;—You play at Picquet; We at All-Fours;—You get drunk with Burgundy; We with Geneva;—You pinck Holes with your Swords; We crack Sculls with our Sticks;—You are Gentlemen; We are hang'd.