Pudd. Are knaves so prosperous?
Beef. Aye, marry are they in this world. They have the game in their hands. Your kings are but noddies[[276]] to them.
Pudd. Ha! ha! ha! Still the same proud spirit, Beefington, which procured thee thine exile from England.
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 heartache? Can they soothe banishment? Can they lighten ignominy? Can All-fours do this? O, 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,[[277]] 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.