ACT II.--SCENE I. A public-house, "Black Horse," in the Borough. A tap-room. _Mags_ and _Poppleton_ discovered drinking "heavy wet." _Mags_ rather fresh, and _Poppleton_ evidently the worse of liquor. _Mags_, after a long pull, deposits the pot upon the table. _Pop._--Now for your news, Mags. _Mags._ I told you, worthy Pop, That Stubs and Smith put keepers on the shop. _Pop._--And how's our missus? _Mags._ Why, hearty, when last seen With a Life-Guardsman, crossing Turnham-green. _Pop._--And honest Snags? _Mags (with emotion)._ Ah! would that epithet were true, Or I could keep the sad details from you! Snags is not _honest_! (_Poppleton buttons his coat, and puts himself into a boxing attitude._) He has robb'd the till, And lost the money, betting at a mill! (_Noise without. Door opens. Enter Young Clipclose hastily._) _Mr. C._--What, Mags and Pop! the coves I wish'd to see Above all others. Curse my pedigree! AIR--_Mr. Clipclose._--("I've been roaming.") I've been nabb'd, sirs,--I've been nabb'd, sirs,-- And bundled off direct to jail, By the villains when they grabb'd, sirs, And now I'm out upon stag-bail. (_Mr. C. seizes the pewter in his right hand._) _Mr. C._--Is this good stout? _Mags (feelingly)._ My honest master, quaff! You'll find it strengthening, real half-and-half. AIR--_Poppleton._--("Here we go up, up, up.") Come, Bob, take a sup, sup, sup! Let the liquor your stiff neck slide down, boy; There's nothing like keeping steam up, When a man's at the worst, and done brown, boy. (_Clipclose starts, looks anxiously at Mags._) _Mr. C._--How's all at home,--I mean on Ludgate-hill,-- And have you heard the winner of the mill? _Mags (with considerable hesitation)._--We all, alas! for Fortune's frowns seem fix'd on. Poor Jerry Scout is bundled off to Brixton; The shop's done up; and, for your lady wife, I fear she's joined the Guards, yclept "The Life;" On other things, barring the fight, I'm barren, And Owen Swift was beat by Barney Aaron. (_Clipclose staggers across the room, and catches at the chimney-piece._) _Mr. C._--My wife levanted, and the shop done up! Mags, hand the quart; I need another sup. Othello like, Bob's occupation's done; For I back'd Owen freely two to one. Like Antony at Actium, this fell day Strips me of all, shop, cash, and lady gay. Would I had nerve to take myself away! _Pop._ (_aside._)--I'll watch him close. Although his looks are placid, He'll take a dose, I fear, of prussic acid. (_Enter Pot-boy._) _Pot-boy._--Is there a gent call'd Mr. Clipclose here? _Mr. C._--I am that wretched man! (_Slaps his forehead._) _Pot-boy._ Who pays the beer? _Pop._--I.