The works of Mr. Thomas Brown, serious and comical : in prose and verse, with his remains in four volumes compleat; vol. IIBrown, Thomas
General
The works of Mr. Thomas Brown, serious and comical : in prose and verse, with his remains in four volumes compleat; vol. II
Brown, Thomas
English wit and humor -- Early works to 1800; Erotic literature -- Early works to 1800; Latin literature -- Translations into English
I happen’d the other night in company with some men of honour, brave
fellows, who were a little nice in their conversation, as well as their
wine, that try’d every word that was spoke by the touch-stone of good
manners, and one of them happening to say he was a lieutenant on board
one of his majesty’s small frigats, when so violent a storm rose upon
the coast of _Ireland_, that a monumental sea washing over the topmast
head, by the very pressure of its weight sunk the vessel to the bottom
of the ocean, which gave such a prodigious knock against the sand with
her keel, that the very rebound, being a tight ship, sent her up again
to the surface, without damage; and that by a watch of _Tompion_’s,
which he had in his pocket, they were three quarters of an hour and some
odd minutes in this dangerous expedition, that is, in going down and
coming up again. Lord Sir, says I, how did you breathe all that while?
Zoons, Sir, says he, ’tis an affront to ask a gentleman such a question,
and I demand satisfaction? am I bound to tell every blockhead how many
times I fetch my breath in three quarters of an hour? Nay, Sir, said I,
if you are for that sport, have at you, I’m a man of honour, and dare
wait upon you any where; with that he whisper’d me to go down stairs,
which we both did accordingly, and drawing at the door, the first pass I
made was a home thrust (for I never love to dally in such cases) and I
run him thro’ the centre of the fifth jubilee button of his coat, and
just scratch’d him in the breast, upon which he dropp’d his sword,
believing I had kill’d him; but I taking up the fallen weapon, stepp’d
to him and unbrac’d him, found he was more afraid than hurt; and that it
was but a small prick that signified nothing: Now, pray Sir, said I, how
did you breathe, I think I may make bold to ask you? I’ll tell you, Sir,
said he, I took in the water at my mouth, just as a fish does, but
having no gills to give it vent, I let it out of my fundament. Upon
which answer, I was well satisfy’d, gave him his sword, and we became as
great friends as the devil and the earl of _Kent_.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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