Mr. Greenfat. Nonsense—it’s all gammon!
Mr. Eelskin. This way, my angel; the concert has recommenced.
Miss Theodosia. Oh, that’s Charles Taylor; I likes his singing; he’s such a merry fellow: do hancore him, John.
Mrs. Greenfat. Dosee, my dear, you’re too bold; it was a very impurent song: I declare I’m quite ashamed of you!
Mr. Greenfat. Never mince matters; always speak your mind, girl.
Mr. Eelskin. The fire-works come next. Suppose we get nearer the Moorish tower, and look for good places, as Mr. G. dislikes paying for the gallery. Now you’ll not be afeard; there’ll not be the least danger, depend.
Mrs. Greenfat. Is there much smoke, Mr. John?—Do they fire many cannons?—I hates cannons—and smoke makes me cough. (Bell rings.) Run, run, my dears—Humphy, Peter, Bella, run! Mr. Greenfat, run, or we shall be too late! Eelskin and Dosee are a mile afore us! What’s that red light? Oh, we shall all be burnt! What noise is that?—Oh, it’s the bomb in the Park!—We shall all be burnt!
Mr. Greenfat. Nonsense, woman, don’t frighten the children!
Miss Theodosia. Now you’re sure the rockets won’t fall on my new pink bonnet, nor the smoke soil my French white dress, nor the smell of the powder frighten me into fits?—Now you’re quite sure of it, John?
Mr. Eelskin. Quite sure, my charmer: I have stood here repeatedly, and never had a hair of my head hurt. See, Blackmore is on the rope; there he goes up—up—up!—Isn’t it pretty, Miss?