_Cab._ As you say, that's generally the most hopeful sign. _Sab._ I tell you, sir, 'tis an infallible one; you know those professions are only to introduce discourse of matrimony and young fellows. _Cab._ But I swear I could not have confidence even after all our long acquaintance, and the mutual love which his lordship (who indeed has now been so kind as to leave us) has so long interrupted, to mention a thing of such a nature so unseasonably---- _Sab._ Unseasonably! Why, I tell you 'tis the only season (granting her sorrow unfeigned): When would you speak of passion, but in the midst of passions? There's a what d'ye call, a crisis[19]--the lucky minute that's so talked of, is a moment between joy and grief, which you must take hold of and push your fortune----But get you in, and you'll best read your fate in the reception Mrs. Tattleaid gives you. All she says, and all she does, nay, her very love and hatred are mere repetition of her ladyship's passions. I'll say that for her, she's a true lady's woman, and is herself as much a second-hand thing as her clothes. But I must beg your pardon, gentlemen, my people are come I see----[_Exeunt_ CAB. _and_ CAMP. _Enter_ SABLE'S _Men._ Where in the name of goodness have you all been? Have you brought the sawdust and tar for embalming? Have you the hangings and the sixpenny nails, and my lord's coat-of-arms? _Enter_ SERVANT. _Ser._ Yes, sir, and had come sooner, but I went to the Herald's for a coat for Alderman Gathergrease that died last night----He has promised to invent one against to-morrow. _Sab._ Ah! Pox take some of our cits, the first thing after their death is to take care of their birth----Pox, let him bear a pair of stockings, he's the first of his family that ever wore one. Well, come you that are to be mourners in this house, put on your sad looks, and walk by me that I may sort you. Ha, you! a little more upon the dismal [_forming their countenances_]; this fellow has a good mortal look--place him near the corpse. That wainscot face must be o' top of the stairs; that fellow's almost in a fright (that looks as if he were full of some strange misery) at the entrance of the hall--so--but I'll fix you all myself----Let's have no laughing now on any provocation [_makes faces_]. Look yonder, that hale, well-looking puppy! You ungrateful scoundrel, did not I pity you, take you out of a great man's service, and show you the pleasure of receiving wages? Did not I give you ten, then fifteen, now twenty shillings a week, to be sorrowful? and the more I give you, I think, the gladder you are. _Enter a_ BOY. _Boy._ Sir, the gravedigger of St. Timothy's-in-the-Fields would speak with you. _Sab._ Let him come in. _Enter_ GRAVEDIGGER.