_Lady Smart._ My Lord _Sparkish_, I have some excellent Cyder, will you please to taste it? _Ld. Sparkish._ My Lord, I should like it well enough, if it were not so treacherous. _Ld. Smart._ Pray, my Lord, how is it treacherous? _Ld. Sparkish._ Because it smiles in my Face, and cuts my Throat. [_Here a loud laugh._] _Miss._ Odd-so! Madam; your Knives are very sharp, for I have cut my Finger. _Lady Smart._ I am sorry for it; pray, which Finger? (God bless the Mark.) _Miss._ Why, this Finger: No, ’tis this: I vow I can’t find which it is. _Neverout._ Ay; the Fox had a Wound, and he could not tell where, _&c._ Bring some Water to throw in her Face. _Miss._ Pray, Mr. _Neverout_, did you ever draw a Sword in Anger? I warrant you would faint at the Sight of your own Blood. _Lady Smart._ Mr. _Neverout_, shall I send you some Veal? _Neverout._ No, Madam; I don’t love it. _Miss._ Then pray for them that do. I desire your Ladyship will send me a Bit. _Ld. Smart._ _Tom_, my Service to you. _Neverout._ My Lord, this Moment I did myself the Honour to drink to your Lordship. _Ld. Smart._ Why then that’s _Hartfordshire_ Kindness. _Neverout._ Faith, my Lord, I pledged myself, for I drank twice together without thinking. _Ld. Sparkish._ Why then, Colonel, my humble Service to You. _Neverout._ Pray, my Lord, don’t make a Bridge of my Nose. _Ld. Sparkish._ Well, a Glass of this Wine is as comfortable as Matrimony to an old Woman. _Col._ Sir _John_, I design one of these Days to come and beat up your Quarters in _Derbyshire_. _Sir John._ Faith, Colonel, come and welcome; and stay away, and heartily welcome: But you were born within the Sound of _Bow_ Bell, and don’t care to stir so far from _London_. _Miss._ Pray, Colonel, send me some Fritters. [_Colonel takes them out with his Hand._ _Col._ Here, Miss; they say, Fingers were made before Forks, and Hands before Knives. _Lady Smart._ Methinks this Pudden is too much boil’d. _Ld. Answ._ Oh! Madam, they say, a Pudden is Poison when it’s too much boil’d. _Neverout._ Miss, shall I help you to a Pigeon? Here’s a Pigeon so finely roasted, it cries, Come eat me. _Miss._ No, Sir; I thank you. _Neverout._ Why, then you may chuse. _Miss._ I have chosen already. _Neverout._ Well, you may be worse offer’d, before you are twice marry’d. [_The Colonel fills a large Plate of Soupe._ _Ld. Smart._ Why, Colonel, you don’t mean to eat all that Soupe? _Col._ O my Lord, this is my sick Dish; when I am well, I’ll have a bigger. _Miss_ [_to Col._] Sup, _Simon_; very good Broth. _Neverout._ This seems to be a good Pullet. _Miss._ I warrant, Mr. _Neverout_ knows what’s good for himself. _Ld. Sparkish._ _Tom_, I shan’t take your Word for it; help me to a Wing. [Neverout _tryes to cut off a Wing_. _Neverout._ Egad I can’t hit the Joint. _Ld. Sparkish._ Why, then, think of a Cuckold. _Neverout._ Oh! now I have nick’d it. [_Gives it Ld._ Sparkish.