_Ald._ No, I know nobody can inform me better of some young wit or spendthrift, who has a good dipped seat and estate in Middlesex, Hertfordshire, Essex, or Kent; any of these would serve my turn; now if you know of such an one, and would but help---- _Man._ You to finish his ruin. _Ald._ I' faith you should have a snip---- _Man._ Of your nose, you thirty in the hundred rascal; would you make me your squire-setter? (_Takes him by the nose._) Two lovers, Lord Plausible and Novel, have the following dialogue about their chances of success with a certain lady who is wooed by both. _Novel._ Prithee, prithee, be not impertinent, my lord; some of you lords are such conceited, well assured impertinent rogues. _Plausible._ And you noble wits are so full of shamming and drollery, one knows not where to have you seriously. _Nov._ Prithee, my lord, be not an ass. Dost thou think to get her from me? I have had such encouragements-- _Plau._ I have not been thought unworthy of 'em. _Nov._ What? not like mine! Come to an eclaircissement, as I said. _Plau._ Why, seriously then; she told me Viscountess sounded prettily. _Nov._ And me, that Novel was a name she would sooner change hers for, than any title in England. _Plau._ She has commended the softness and respectfulness of my behaviour. _Nov._ She has praised the briskness of my raillery in all things, man. _Plau._ The sleepiness of my eyes she liked. _Nov._ Sleepiness! dulness, dulness. But the fierceness of mine she adored. _Plau._ The brightness of my hair she liked. _Nov._ Brightness! no the greasiness, I warrant! But the blackness and lustre of mine she admires. _Plau._ The gentleness of my smile. _Nov._ The subtilty of my leer. _Plau._ The clearness of my complexion. _Nov._ The redness of my lips. _Plau._ The whiteness of my teeth. _Nov._ My jaunty way of picking them. _Plau._ The sweetness of my breath. _Nov._ Ha! ha! nay there she abused you, 'tis plain; for you know what Manly said: the sweetness of your pulvillio she might mean; but for your breath! ha! ha! ha! Your breath is such, man, that nothing but tobacco can perfume; and your complexion nothing could mend but the small-pox. CHAPTER IX. Tom Brown--His Prose Works--Poetry--Sir Richard Blackmore--D'Urfey--Female Humorists--Carey.