Horn. Yes; but you'll be so bitter then.
Spark. Honest Dick and Frank here shall answer for me; I will not be extreme bitter, by the universe.
Har. We will be bound in a ten thousand pound bond, he shall not be bitter at all.
Dor. Nor sharp, nor sweet.
Horn. What, not downright insipid?
Spark. Nay then, since you are so brisk, and provoke me, take what follows. You must know, I was discoursing and rallying with some ladies yesterday, and they happened to talk of the fine new signs in town—
Horn. Very fine ladies, I believe.
Spark. Said I, I know where the best new sign is.—Where? says one of the ladies.—In Covent-Garden, I replied.—Said another, In what street?—In Russel-street, answered I.—Lord, says another, I'm sure there was never a fine new sign there yesterday.—Yes, but there was, said I again; and it came out of France, and has been there a fortnight.
Dor. A pox! I can hear no more, prithee.
Horn. No, hear him out; let him tune his crowd a while.