_Jack._ Allons, St. Louis. (_Sits down_) _Wildfire._ What's that, a Wig? (_Jack puts on a mask while his man powders him_) Wounds what a fellow it is. Egad he's in earnest all this while. He has forgot the plainess and honesty of an Englishman without having the outside Shew of a Frenchman. _Foxchase._ Come along man, let's leave the fellow to himself. _Wildfire._ Lookye Jack. (_Pulls the mask from Jack's face_) When you are the same honest fellow we once knew we shall to crack a Bottle with you, but while you continue a ridiculous Ape of French Manners, we heartily despise you, and so you may go and be damn'd Mounsieur. Hillo ho! (_Exeunt_) _Jack._ Hey! St. Louis, Bourguignon, La Fleur, Hector, de Roger, I am never at home for these People again. Pardie sont des Homes a jetter par le Fenestre to be thrown out of the window. Allons, finish my head, St. Louis. (_Enter_ ROGER) _Roger._ Lady Betty Mockmode, Sir, is with Miss Harriet, and desires to speak with you. _Jack._ This Eyebrow is very obstinate today, here La Fleur, arch my Eyebrow. Tell my Lady Betty that I am so deranged by these People, that I must now go and take the Air to recover my Spirits--and tell my Lady Betty if she will come to the Park, we will entertain ouselves with a little Raillery upon the Mob of English Gentlemen. It is well observed by one of the wits of France that few People know how to take a walk, I'll shew them how to walk. Plus belle que l'Aurora. (_Exit_) (_Scene the Park. Enter_ WILDFIRE _and_ FOXCHASE) _Wildfire._ Split the fellow! Did you ever see anything so metamorphos'd? But rot him. Let's talk no more about him. _Foxchase._ He verifies the old Proverb, send a Goose from Dover--there's hardly any Company in the Park this Morning. _Wildfire._ A few discontented Politicians, and Poets taking the benefit of the Air; but what the Deuce is the Matter yonder? _Foxchase._ There's a Mob got together-- _Wildfire._ Split me, but I believe it is--yes, it is--it is by Jupiter--it's Jack Broughton with the Mob at his Heels, death what a figure he cuts! Let's step aside, and not pretend to know him. (_Enter_ JACK BROUGHTON _dress'd fantastically_) _Mob._ Hurra! Hurra! Make room for the French Gentleman. _1st Mob._ Mounsieur, Mounsieur, what will you dine upon the haunch of a Frog today? _2nd Mob._ Mounsieur, what was you taken Prisoner? _Jack._ Ma foi, voila, un droll de Paris--English Manners. _Mob._ Hurra! Hurra! _Jack._ Hey Bourguignon, La Fleur, Hector, this fellow has picked my Pocket here. _Pickpocket._ I pick your pocket! I scorn your Words, ram my Eyes, what do you mean Mounsieur? I believe I've as much Money in my pocket as you, for all your Bag Mounsieur. Come, now, ram my Eyes, will you box?