Concerns extend no farther than my own Pariſh.’
‘Why ay,’ ſays the Squire, ‘I believe I do know a little of that Matter, as you ſay; but come, Tommy, drink about, the Bottle ſtands with you.’
Tom begged to be excuſed, for that he had particular Buſineſs; and getting up from Table, eſcaped the Clutches of the Squire who was riſing to ſtop him, and went off with very little Ceremony.
The Squire gave him a good Curſe at his Departure; and then turning to the Parſon, he cried out, ‘I ſmoke it, I ſmoke it. Tom is certainly the Father of this Baſtard. ’Zooks, Parſon, you remember how he recommended the Veather o’ her to me—d—n un, what a ſly B—ch ’tis. Ay, ay, as ſure as Two-pence, Tom is the Veather of the Baſtard.’
‘I ſhould be very ſorry for that,’ ſays the Parſon. ‘Why ſorry,’ cries the Squire, ‘where is the mighty Matter o’t? What, I ſuppoſe, doſt pretend that thee haſt never got a Baſtard? Pox! more good Luck’s thine: for I warrant haſt a done therefore many’s the good Time and often.‘Your
