_Gal._ Curse, curse, and then I goe. Look how he grins, I've anger'd him to th' kidneys. [_Ex._ _1 Gen._ Was ever such a prigging coxcomb seen? One might have beat him dumb now in this humor, And he'd ha' grin'd it out still: _Enter a plain fellow._ Oh, here's one made to my hand, Methinks looks like a Craven; Less pains will serve his trial: some slight justle. _Plain._ How? take you that Sir: And if that content you not-- _1 Gent._ Yes very well, Sir, I desire no more. _Plain._ I think you need not; For you have not lost by't. [_Exit._ _1 Gent._ Who would ha' thought this would have prov'd a Gentleman? I'll never trust long chins and little legs agen, I'll know 'em sure for Gentlemen hereafter: A gristle but in shew, but gave his cuff With such a fetch, and reach of gentry, As if h' had had his arms before the floud; I have took a villanous hard taske upon me; Now I begin to have a feeling on't. _Enter_ Lapet, _and Clown his servant, and so habited_. Oh, here comes a try'd piece, now, the reformed kick. The millions of punches, spurns, and nips That he has endur'd! his buttock's all black Lead, He's half a _Negro_ backward; he was past a _Spaniard_ In Eighty eight, and more _Ægyptian_ like; His Table and his Book come both out shortly, And all the cowards in the Town expect it; So, if I fail of my full number now, I shall be sure to find 'em at Church corners, Where _Dives_, and the suff'ring Ballads hang. _Lap._ Well, since thou art of so mild a temper, Of so meek a spirit, thou mayst live with me, Till better times do smile on thy deserts. I am glad I am got home again. _Clow._ I am happy in your service, Sir, You'll keep me from the Hospital. _Lap._ So, bring me the last proof, this is corrected. _Clow._ I, y'are too full of your correction, Sir. _Lap._ Look I have perfect Books within this half hour. _Clow._ Yes Sir. _Lap._ Bid him put all the Thumps in _Pica Roman_. And with great T's, (you vermin) as Thumps should be. _Clow._ Then in what Letter will you have your Kicks? _Lap._ All in _Italica_, your backward blows All in _Italica_, you _Hermaphrodite_: When shall I teach you wit? _Clow._ Oh let it alone, Till you have some your self, Sir. _Lap._ You mumble? _Clow._ The victuals are lockt up; I'm kept from mumbling. [_Exit._ _Lap._ He prints my blows upon Pot Paper too, the rogue, Which had been proper for some drunken Pamphlet. _1 Gent._ Monsieur _Lapet_? how the world rings of you, Sir! Your name sounds far and near. _Lap._ A good report it bears, for an enduring name-- _1 Gent._ What luck have you Sir? _Lap._ Why, what's the matter?