Abs. I shall, ma’am.

Mrs. Mal. Come, take a graceful leave of the gentleman.

Lyd. May every blessing wait on my Beverley, my loved Bev—

Mrs. Mal. Hussy! I’ll choke the word in your throat!—come along—come along.

[Exeunt severally; Captain Absolute kissing his hand to Lydia—Mrs. Malaprop stopping her from speaking.

Scene IV.—Acres’ Lodgings.

Acres, as just dressed, and David.

Acres. Indeed, David—do you think I become it so?

Dav. You are quite another creature, believe me, master, by the mass! an’ we’ve any luck we shall see the Devon monkerony in all the print-shops in Bath!

Acres. Dress does make a difference, David.

Dav. ’Tis all in all, I think.—Difference! why, an’ you were to go now to Clod Hall, I am certain the old lady wouldn’t know you: Master Butler wouldn’t believe his own eyes, and Mrs. Pickle would cry, Lard presarve me! our dairy-maid would come giggling to the door, and I warrant Dolly Tester, your honour’s favourite, would blush like my waistcoat.—Oons! I’ll hold a gallon, there an’t a dog in the house but would bark, and I question whether Phillis would wag a hair of her tail!

Acres. Ay, David, there’s nothing like polishing.

Dav. So I says of your honour’s boots; but the boy never heeds me!

Acres. But, David, has Mr. De-la-grace been here? I must rub up my balancing, and chasing, and boring.

Dav. I’ll call again, sir.

Acres. Do—and see if there are any letters for me at the post-office.

Dav. I will.—By the mass, I can’t help looking at your head!— if I hadn’t been by at the cooking, I wish I may die if I should have known the dish again myself.

[Exit.

Acres. [Practising a dancing-step.] Sink, slide—coupee.— Confound the first inventors of cotillons! say I—they are as bad as algebra to us country gentlemen.—I can walk a minuet easy enough when I am forced!—and I have been accounted a good stick in a country-dance.—Odds jigs and tabors! I never valued your cross-over to couple—figure in—right and left—and I’d foot it with e’er a captain in the county!—but these outlandish heathen allemandes and cotillons are quite beyond me!—I shall never prosper at ’em, that’s sure—mine are true-born English legs—they don’t understand their curst French lingo!—their pas this, and pas that, and pas t’other!—damn me! my feet don’t like to be called paws! no, ’tis certain I have most Antigallican toes!

Enter Servant.

Serv. Here is Sir Lucius O’Trigger to wait on you, sir.

Acres. Show him in.