Beef. England! my native land!—when shall I revisit thee?
[During this time Puddingfield deals, and begins to arrange his hand.
Beef. [continues.] Phoo—hang all-fours; what are they to a mind ill at ease? Can they cure the heart-ache? Can they sooth banishment? Can they lighten ignominy? Can all-fours do this? Oh! my Puddingfield, thy limber and lightsome spirit bounds up against affliction—with the elasticity of a well-bent bow; but mine—O! mine—
[Falls into an agony, and sinks back in his chair. Young Pottingen awakened by the noise, rises, and advances with a grave demeanour towards Beefington and Puddingfield. The former begins to recover.
Y. Pot. What is the matter, comrades?[209]—you seem agitated. Have you lost or won?
Beef. Lost. I have lost my country.
Y. Pot. And I my sister. I came hither in search of her.
Beef. O England!
Y. Pot. O Matilda!
Beef. Exiled by the tyranny of an usurper, I seek the means of revenge, and of restoration to my country.