Sir Abel. What! Bob? Oh, you'll see him presently—[Nodding significantly.]—Here are the prize medals; and if you will condescend to present them, I'm sure they'll be worn with additional pleasure.—I say, you'll see Bob presently.—Well, Farmer, is it all over?
Ash. Ees, zur; the acres be plough'd and the ground judg'd; and the young lads be coming down to receive their reward—Heartily welcome, miss, to your native land; hope you be as pleased to zee we as we be to zee you, and the like o'that.—Mortal beautizome to be sure—I declare, miss, it do make I quite warm zomehow to look at ye. [A shout without.] They be coming—Now, Henry!
Sir Abel. Now you'll see Bob!—now my dear boy, Bob!—here he comes.
[Huzza.
Enter Henry and two young Husbandmen.
Ash. 'Tis he, he has don't—Dang you all, why dan't ye shout? Huzza!
Sir Abel. Why, zounds, where's Bob?—I don't see Bob—Bless me, what has become of Bob and my plough?
[Retires and takes out his glass.
Ash. Well, Henry, there be the prize, and there be the fine lady that will gi' it thee.
Henry. Tell me who is that lovely creature?