_O’Dogh._ O! then only shew me the necessity, and all my objections will vanish. _Mrs. Dig._ Why, sir, I am affronted for want of a title: a parcel of upstarts, with their crownets upon their coaches, their chairs, their spoons, their handkerchiefs--nay, on the very knockers of their doors--creatures that were below me but t’other day, are now truly my superiors, and have the precedency, and are set above me at table. _O’Dogh._ Set above you at table? _Mrs. Dig._ Yes, sir, set above me at table wherever I go. _O’Dogh._ Upon my honour then that’s a great shame. Well, well, my dear--come, come, my dear, don’t be in such a fluster. _Mrs. Dig._ Fluster! why sir, I tell you I am ready to expire when ever I go into the great world. _O’Dogh._ At what, my dear? _Mrs. Dig._ At what--Egh! how can you ax such an ignorant quistion? Can there be any thing more provoking to a woman of my teest and spirit, than to hear the titles of a parcel of upstart ugly creatures bawled in one’s ears upon every occasion--my Lady Kinnegad’s coach there--my Lady Kilgobbin’s chair there--my Lady Castleknock’s servants there--my Lady Tanderagee’s chariot there. And after all these titles only consider how my vile neem sounds--(_cries_) Mrs. Diggerty’s servants there--Mrs. Diggerty’s chair there--Mrs. Diggerty’s coach there--it is so mean and beggarly I cannot bear it--the very thought of it makes me ready to burst my stays, and almost throws me into my hysterics. (_throws herself into a couch._) _O’Dogh._ Nay, my dear, don’t be working yourself up to your fits, your hysterics, and your tantrums now. _Mrs. Dig._ My life is miserable (_rises_). You cross me in every thing, you are always finding fault with my routs, and my drums, and my fancy ball--t’other night you would not make up a dress for it, nor appear at it--O fie, fie, fie--but you are true Irish to the very bone of you. _O’Dogh._ Indeed I am, and to the marrow within the bone too; and what is more, I hope I shall never be otherwise. _Mrs. Dig._ Ridiculous weakness! Pray, sir, do not you think the English love their country as well as the Irish do theirs? _O’Dogh._ O indeed I believe they do, and a great deal better; though we have a great many among us that call themselves patriots and champions, who, at the same time, would not care if poor old Ireland was squeezed as you squeeze an orange--provided they had but their share of the juice. _Mrs. Dig._ Pooh, pooh! nobody minds what you say--you are always abusing every body in power--well, sir, you see the English are improving in teest every day, and have their burlettas and their operas, their Cornelys, their Almacks, their macaronies--