Sad. He was not long enough there to see the pleasure of it.
Jolly. Pleasure! what is't called? walking, or hawking, or shooting at butts?
Con. You found other pleasures, or else the story of the meadow is no gospel.
Jolly. Yes, a pox upon the necessity! Here I could as soon have taken the cow as such a milk-maid.
Sad. The wine and meat's good, and the company.
Jolly. When, at a Tuesday meeting, the country comes into a match at two-shillings rubbers, where they conclude at dinner what shall be done this parliament, railing against the court and Pope, after the old Elizabeth-way of preaching, till they are drunk with zeal; and then the old knight of the shire from the board's end, in his coronation breeches, vies clinches with a silenced minister—a rogue that railed against the reformation, merely to be eased of the trouble of preaching.
Con. Nay, as I live, now you are to blame, and wrong him. The man's a very able man.
Jolly. You'll be able to say so one day, upon your wife's report. I would he were gelt, and all that hold his opinion: by this good day, they get more souls than they save.
Sad. And what think you of the knight's son? I hope he's a fine gentleman, when his green suit and his blue stockings are on; and the welcomest thing to Mistress Abigail, but Tib and Tom in the stock.[205]
Jolly. Who, Master Jeffrey? Hobbinol the second! By this life, 'tis a very veal, and he licks his nose like one of them. By his discourse you'd guess he had eaten nothing but hay. I wonder he doth not go on all four too, and hold up his leg when he stales. He talks of nothing but the stable. The cobbler's blackbird at the corner has more discourse. He has not so much as the family jest which these Corydons use to inherit. I posed him in Booker's prophecies,[206] till he confessed he had not mastered his almanac yet.