Shr. Eighteen Pence a Week! Why the Kitchin Wench gets more for her Coney Skins; but what allowance are you to have now, Master, you should have handsome Lodgings in Pall-Mall Tutors to embellish you, dress out for Whites, keep a Chair by the Week, and an impudent Footman to knock down People before you.
Tot. Ay, but my Grand-mother charg'd me on her Blessing never to go to that end o'the Town; she says, they are abominable Spendthrifts there; bid me remember the Prodigal Son, and has given me only a broad Jacobus to pay for Post Letters, and a Hundred Pound Bill upon Sir Francis to put me Clerk to an Attorney.
Shr. Clerk to an Attorney! Why the Nation swarms with 'em; so many young Fellows now are bred to that Profession, Men, and their Wives are forc'd to go to Law to find bus'ness for their Children.
Knap. Hang the Hundred Pounds; we'll spend it, Master, in showing you the Town, the Lyons, and the Tombs, the Bears, and the Morocco's, the Jew's Synagogue, and the Gyants at Guild-hall, my Lord-Mayor's great Coach, and my Lady Mayoress's great Tower.
Tot. Shan't we go to the Play-house too, and see Pinkeman, Bullock, and Jubilee Dicky?
Knap. Ay, and behind the Scenes too amongst the pretty Actresses; I must have you a smart Youth, understand the finish'd Vices o'the Town, learn to swear like a Gentleman of Ten Thousand a Year, few Men of Estates are bred to Conversation, game like a desp'rate younger Brother, several embroider'd Suits are known to live by't, drink abundantly to prevent dull-thinking, and Whore lustily to encourage the Dispensary that gives the poor Physick for nothing. Mr. Shrimp here knows the World; and, I warrant, for cogging a Die, bullying a Coward, bilking a Hackney Coachman, and storming a Nest of Whores in Drury-lane, not a Master of Arts in either University can come near him.
Tot. Fegs, so I will, they shan't think to cow me any longer; one cou'd never stir out o'the Room, but my Grand-mother was purring after a Body, and if she heard one got a little merry at T. Totum, with the Maids, she'd quaver out Totty, come, and say your Catechism;—What is the chief End of Man? And upon ev'ry little Fault, she'd lock me up to get Quarles's Emblems by heart, and threaten I shou'd lie in the great Room that's haunted, and never let one have any other diversion, than to hear the Chaplain play Jumping Joan upon the Base Viol.
Shr. Shall we adjourn to the Rose, the Drawer's my particular Friend, and will give us French Wine for Eighteen Pence a Bottle.
Tot. But lets ha' some Sack, do.
Knap. Ay, and Sugar, my brave Boy, thou shall't have any thing; we'll be merry as mony'd Sailors over a Bowl o'Rum Punch, fluster'd as their Whores, and frolicksom, 'till we have spent all, drink Confusion to all Grand-mothers, and if the old Cat pretends to Ptysick it much longer, we'll get an Act of Parliament to poyson her.