Ash. Noa, zur, I doant—but little zweepy do tell I he can zee a bit out from the top of the chimbley—zoa, an you've a mind to crawl up you may zee un too, he, he!
Sir Abel. Thank you—but damn your titter. [Reads.]—"Fish ponds well stocked"—That's a good thing, Farmer.
Ash. Likely, likely—but I doant think the vishes do thrive much in theas ponds.
Sir Abel. No! why?
Ash. Why, the ponds be always dry i'the zummer; and I be tould that bean't wholesome vor the little vishes.
Sir Abel. Not very, I believe—Well said surveyor! "A cool summer house."
Ash. Ees, zur, quite cool—by reason the roof be tumbled in.
Sir Abel. Better and better—"the whole capable of the greatest improvement."—Come, that seems true however—I shall have plenty to do, that's one comfort—I have such contrivances! I'll have a canal run through my kitchen.—I must give this rustic some idea of my consequence. [Aside.] You must know, Farmer, you have the honour of conversing with a man, who has obtained patents for tweezers, tooth-picks, and tinder boxes—to a philosopher, who has been consulted on the Wapping docks and the Gravesend tunnel; and who has now in hand two inventions which will render him immortal—the one is, converting saw dust into deal boards, and the other is, a plan of cleaning rooms by a steam engine—and, Farmer, I mean to give prizes for industry—I'll have a ploughing match.
Ash. Will you, zur?
Sir Abel. Yes; for I consider a healthy young man, between the handles of a plough, as one of the noblest illustrations of the prosperity of Britain.