faſt—I'll go for my hat and cane, fetch a little walk with you, my Lord, and then for the hot rolls and butter!
L. Ogle. I ſhall attend you with pleaſure—Hot rolls and butter, in July!—I ſweat with the thoughts of it—What a ſtrange beaſt it is!
Cant. C'eſt un barbare.
L. Ogle. He is a vulgar dog, and if there was not ſo much money in the family, which I can't do without, I would leave him and his hot rolls and butter directly—Come along, Monſieur!
Scene changes to the Garden.
Enter Sir John Melvil, and Lovewell.
Lovew. In my room this morning? Impoſſible.
Sir John. Before five this morning, I promiſe you.
Lovew. On what occaſion?
Sir John. I was ſo anxious to diſcloſe my mind to you, that I could not ſleep in my bed—But I found that you could not ſleep neither—The bird was flown, and the neſt long ſince cold.—Where was you, Lovewell?
Lovew. Pooh! prithee! ridiculous!
Sir John. Come now! which was it? Miſs Sterling's maid? a pretty little rogue!—or Miſs Fanny's Abigail? a ſweet ſoul too!—or—
Lovew. Nay, nay, leave trifling, and tell me your buſineſs.
Sir John. Well, but where was you, Lovewell?
Lovew. Walking—writing—what ſignifies where I was?
Sir John. Walking! yes, I dare ſay. It rained as hard as it could pour. Sweet refreſhing ſhowers to walk in! No, no, Lovewell.—Now would I give twenty pounds to know which of the maids
Lovew. But your buſineſs! your buſineſs, Sir John!
