That you will here, with poor us, still remain!
Before your horses come, pronounce our fate,
For then, alas, I fear 'twill be too late.
Bayes. Sad!
Harry, my boots; for I'll go range among!
Vols. My blades encamp'd, and quit this urban throng.[28]
Smith. But pray, Mr. Bayes, is not this a little difficult, that you were saying e'en now, to keep an army thus conceal'd in Knightsbridge?
Bayes. In Knightsbridge? stay.
Johns. No, not if the inn-keepers be his friends.
Bayes. His friends! ay, sir, his intimate acquaintance; or else indeed I grant it could not be.