Sir B. There, Crispin. Pshaw, how he stinks of those vile spirits and tobacco. (aside.)
Cris. Give us your fist again (holding him by the hand), my dear friend, Sir Bilberry, who loves me as well as the mayor himself, who can descend to drink gin with, and kiss a poor cobbler in his stall. I heartily thank you, and now I’ll finish my shoe.
Sir B. Well, honest Crispin! you promised to vote for me?
Cris. Who told you so?
Sir B. Oh! my dear, I understand you (taking out his purse) here are corianders that will purchase hides enough to heel-piece the whole borough—here Crispin.
Cris. What! a bribe;——out of my stall, or by Jingo I’ll stick my awl to the head in your——
Dibble leaves the stall, Crispin follows.
Sir B. Here’s a transition, Pander.
Cris. What! shall Crispin Heel-tap, the cobbler of Steady-town, give his vote to such a thing as you? A mean-spirited rascal who can stoop to drink gin in a stall, and to kiss the sweaty cheek of a poor cobbler? No, no; to serve your purpose you would not mind stooping to kiss my——, make off while you’re safe. I’ll vote for none of your Jack-a-Dandy’s, but for my faithful master, Sir Thomas Trueman—so away, Sir Fop, you have your answer.
Exeunt Dibble and Pander.