_Ger._ No, no;--but, monsieur, now give me leave to admire thee, that in three months at Paris you could renounce your language, drinking, and your country, (for which we are not angry with you,) as I said, and come home so perfect a Frenchman, that the draymen of your father's own brewhouse would be ready to knock thee on the head. _Mons._ Vel, vel, my father was a merchant of his own beer, as the _noblesse_ of Franch of their own wine.--But I can forgive you that raillery, that bob,[56] since you say I have the eyre _Français_:--but have I the eyre _Français_? _Ger._ As much as any French footman of 'em all. _Mons._ And do I speak agreeable ill Englis enough? _Ger._ Very ill. _Mons. Véritablement?_ _Ger. Véritablement._ _Mons._ For you must know, 'tis as ill breeding now to speak good Englis as to write good Englis, good sense, or a good hand. _Ger._ But, indeed, methinks you are not slovenly enough for a Frenchman. _Mons._ Slovenly! you mean negligent? _Ger._ No, I mean slovenly. _Mons._ Then I will be more slovenly. _Ger._ You know, to be a perfect Frenchman, you must never be silent, never sit still, and never be clean. _Mar._ But you have forgot one main qualification of a true Frenchman, he should never be sound, that is, be very pocky too. _Mons._ Oh! if dat be all, I am very pocky; pocky enough, _jarni!_ that is the only French qualification may be had without going to Paris, _ma foi!_ _Enter_ Waiter. _Wait._ Here are a couple of ladies coming up to you, sir. _Ger._ To us!--did you appoint any to come hither, Martin? _Mar._ Not I. _Ger._ Nor you, monsieur? _Mons._ Nor I. _Ger._ Sirrah, tell your master, if he cannot protect us from the constable, and these midnight coursers, 'tis not a house for us. _Mar._ Tell 'em you have nobody in the house, and shut the doors. _Wait._ They'll not be satisfied with that, they'll break open the door. They searched last night all over the house for my Lord Fisk, and Sir Jeffery Jantee, who were fain to hide themselves in the bar under my mistress's chair and petticoats. _Mons._ Wat, do the women hunt out the men so now? _Mar._ Ay, ay, things are altered since you went to Paris; there's hardly a young man in town dares be known of his lodging for 'em. _Ger._ Bailiffs, pursuivants, or a city constable, are modest people in comparison of them. _Mar._ And we are not so much afraid to be taken up by the watch as by the tearing midnight ramblers, or huzza women. _Mons. Jarni!_ ha! ha! ha! _Ger._ Where are they? I hope they are gone again. _Wait._ No, sir, they are below at the stair-foot, only swearing at their coachman. _Ger._ Come, you rogue, they are in fee with you waiters, and no gentleman can come hither, but they have the intelligence straight.