O’Con. Then, upon my word, I’ll have the Rising Sun put down, and the Angel shall give security for his good behaviour; but are you sure you do nothing to quit scores with them?

Flint. Nothing at all, your honour, unless now and then we happen to fling a cartridge into the kitchen fire, or put a spatterdash or so into the soup; and sometimes Ned drums up and down stairs a little of a night.

O’Con. Oh, all that’s fair; but hark’ee, lads, I must have no grumbling on St. Patrick’s day; so here, take this, and divide it amongst you. But observe me now,—show yourselves men of spirit, and don’t spend sixpence of it in drink.

Trounce. Nay, hang it, your honour, soldiers should never bear malice; we must drink St. Patrick’s and your honour’s health.

All. Oh, damn malice! St. Patrick’s and his honour’s by all means.

Flint. Come away, then, lads, and first we’ll parade round the Market-cross, for the honour of King George.

1 Sol. Thank your honour.—Come along; St. Patrick, his honour, and strong beer for ever!

[Exeunt Soldiers.

O’Con. Get along, you thoughtless vagabonds! yet, upon my conscience, ’tis very hard these poor fellows should scarcely have bread from the soil they would die to defend.

Enter Doctor Rosy.

Ah, my little Dr. Rosy, my Galen a-bridge, what’s the news?

Rosy. All things are as they were, my Alexander; the justice is as violent as ever: I felt his pulse on the matter again, and, thinking his rage began to intermit, I wanted to throw in the bark of good advice, but it would not do. He says you and your cut-throats have a plot upon his life, and swears he had rather see his daughter in a scarlet fever than in the arms of a soldier.

O’Con. Upon my word the army is very much obliged to him. Well, then, I must marry the girl first, and ask his consent afterwards.

Rosy. So, then, the case of her fortune is desperate, hey?

O’Con. Oh, hang fortune,—let that take its chance; there is a beauty in Lauretta’s simplicity, so pure a bloom upon her charms.

Rosy. So there is, so there is. You are for beauty as nature made her, hey! No artificial graces, no cosmetic varnish, no beauty in grey, hey!

O’Con. Upon my word, doctor, you are right; the London ladies were always too handsome for me; then they are so defended, such a circumvallation of hoop, with a breastwork of whale-bone that would turn a pistol-bullet, much less Cupid’s arrows,—then turret on turret on top, with stores of concealed weapons, under pretence of black pins,—and above all, a standard of feathers that would do honour to a knight of the Bath. Upon my conscience, I could as soon embrace an Amazon, armed at all points.

Rosy. Right, right, my Alexander! my taste to a tittle.

O’Con. Then, doctor, though I admire modesty in women, I like to see their faces. I am for the changeable rose; but with one of these quality Amazons, if their midnight dissipations had left them blood enough to

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