than that ſhe ſhould leave us.—Her vulgar father, that's the very abſtract of 'Change-Alley—the aunt, that's always endeavouring to be a fine lady—and the pert ſiſter, for ever ſhewing that ſhe is one, are horrid company indeed, and without her would be intolerable. Ah, la petite Fanchon! ſhe's the thing. Is n't ſhe, Cant?
Cant. Dere is very good ſympatie entre vous, and dat young lady, mi Lor.
Lord Ogle. I'll not be left among theſe Goths and Vandals, your Sterlings, your Heidelbergs, and Devilbergs—If ſhe goes, I'll poſitively go too.
Cant. In de ſame poſt-chay, mi Lor? You have no object to dat I believe, nor Mademoiſelle neider too—ha, ha, ha.
Lord Ogle. Prithee hold thy fooliſh tongue, Cant. Does thy Swiſs ſtupidity imagine that I can ſee and talk with a fine girl without deſires?—My eyes are involuntarily attracted by beautiful objects—I fly as naturally to a fine girl—
Cant. As de fine girl to you, my Lor, ha, ha, ha; you alway fly togedre like un pair de pigeons.—
Lord Ogle. Like un pair de pigeons—[mocks him.]—Vous etes un ſot, Monſ. Canton—Thou art always dreaming of my intrigues, and never ſeeſt me badiner, but you ſuſpect miſchief, you old fool, you.
Cant. I am fool, I confeſs, but not always fool in dat, my Lor, he, he, he.
Lord Ogle. He, he, he.—Thou art incorrigible, but thy abſurdities amuſe one—Thou art like my rappee here, [takes out his box.] a moſt ridiculous ſuperfluity, but a pinch of thee now and then is a moſt delicious treat.
Cant. You do me great honeur, my Lor.
Lord Ogle. 'Tis fact, upon my ſoul.—Thou art properly my cephalick ſnuff, and art no bad medicine againſt megrims, vertigoes, and profound thinking—ha, ha, ha.
