Come, Bob, take a sup, sup, sup!
Let the liquor your stiff neck slide down, boy;
There's nothing like keeping steam up,
When a man's at the worst, and done brown, boy.
(Clipclose starts, looks anxiously at Mags.)
Mr. C.—How's all at home,—I mean on Ludgate-hill,—
And have you heard the winner of the mill?
Mags (with considerable hesitation).—We all, alas! for Fortune's frowns seem fix'd on.
Poor Jerry Scout is bundled off to Brixton;
The shop's done up; and, for your lady wife,
I fear she's joined the Guards, yclept "The Life;"
On other things, barring the fight, I'm barren,
And Owen Swift was beat by Barney Aaron.
(Clipclose staggers across the room, and catches at the chimney-piece.)
Mr. C.—My wife levanted, and the shop done up!
Mags, hand the quart; I need another sup.
Othello like, Bob's occupation's done;
For I back'd Owen freely two to one.
Like Antony at Actium, this fell day
Strips me of all, shop, cash, and lady gay.
Would I had nerve to take myself away!
Pop. (aside.)—I'll watch him close. Although his looks are placid,
He'll take a dose, I fear, of prussic acid.
(Enter Pot-boy.)
Pot-boy.—Is there a gent call'd Mr. Clipclose here?
Mr. C.—I am that wretched man!(Slaps his forehead.)
Pot-boy. Who pays the beer?
Pop.—I.
Pot-boy.—Here's a note. (To Mr. C.) Lord, but the man looks queer!