Colonel takes them out with his hand.
Col. Here, miss; they say fingers were made before forks, and hands before knives.
Lady Smart. Methinks this pudding is too much boil'd.
Lady Answ. O! madam, they say a pudding is poison, when it is too much boil'd.
Neverout. Miss, shall I help you to a pigeon? here's a pigeon so finely roasted, it cries, Come eat me.
Miss. No, sir; I thank you.
Neverout. Why, then you may choose.
Miss. I have chosen already.
Neverout. Well, you may be worse offered, before you are twice married.
The Colonel fills a large plate of soup.
Ld. Smart. Why, colonel, you don't mean to eat all that soup.
Col. O, my lord, this is my sick dish; when I'm well, I'll have a bigger.
Miss. [to Col.] Sup, Simon; very good broth.
Neverout. This seems to be a good pullet.
Miss. I warrant, Mr. Neverout knows what's good for himself.
Ld. Sparkish. Tom, I sha'nt take your word for it; help me to a wing.
Neverout tries to cut off a wing.
Neverout. Egad, I can't hit the joint.
Ld. Sparkish. Why then, think of a cuckold.
Neverout. O! now I have nick'd it.
Ld. Sparkish. Why, a man may eat this, though his wife lay a dying.
