Cant. 'Tis very true, my Lor—I can't help—
L. Ogle. [cries out.] O Diavolo!
Cant. You are not in pain, I hope, my Lor.
L. Ogle. Indeed but I am, my Lor—That vulgar fellow Sterling, with his city politeneſs, would force me down his ſlope laſt night to ſee a clay-colour'd ditch, which he calls a canal; and what with the dew, and the eaſt-wind, my hips and ſhoulders are abſolutely ſcrew'd to my body.
Cant. A littel veritable eau d'arquibuſade vil ſet all to right again— [My Lord ſits down, Bruſh gives chocolate.
L. Ogle. Where are the palſy-drops, Bruſh?
Bruſh. Here, my Lord! [Pouring out.
L. Ogle. Quelle nouvelle avez vous, Canton?
Cant. A great deal of papier, but no news at all.
L. Ogle. What! nothing at all, you ſtupid fellow?
Cant. Yes, my Lor, I have littel advertiſe here vil give you more plaiſir den all de lyes about noting at all. La voila! [Puts on his ſpectacles.
L. Ogle. Come read it, Canton, with good emphaſis, and good diſcretion.
Cant. I vil, my Lor—[Cant. reads.] Dere is no queſtion, but dat de Coſmetique Royale vil utterlie take away all heats, pimps, frecks & oder eruptions of de ſkin, and likewiſe de wrinque of old age, &c. &c.—A great deal more, my Lor—be ſure to aſk for de Coſmetique Royale, ſigned by de Docteur own hand—Dere is more raiſon for dis caution dan good men vil tink—Eh bien, my Lor!
L. Ogle. Eh bien, Canton!—Will you purchaſe any?
Cant. For you, my Lor?
L. Ogle. For me, you old puppy! for what?
Cant. My Lor?
L. Ogle. Do I want coſmeticks?
Cant. My Lor!
L. Ogle. Look in my face—come, be ſincere—Does it want the aſſiſtance of art?
Cant.
