Lord Fop. Now, by all that’s good and powerful, thou art an incomprehensive coxcomb!—but thou makest good shoes, and so I’ll bear with thee.

Shoe. My lord, I have worked for half the people of quality in this town these twenty years, and ’tis very hard I shouldn’t know when a shoe hurts, and when it don’t.

Lord Fop. Well, pr’ythee be gone about thy business.—[Exit Shoemaker.] Mr. Mendlegs, a word with you.—The calves of these stockings are thickened a little too much; they make my legs look like a porter’s.

Mend. My lord, methinks they look mighty well.

Lord Fop. Ay, but you are not so good a judge of those things as I am—I have studied them all my life—therefore pray let the next be the thickness of a crown-piece less.

Mend. Indeed, my lord, they are the same kind I had the honour to furnish your lordship with in town.

Lord Fop. Very possibly, Mr. Mendlegs; but that was in the beginning of the winter, and you should always remember, Mr. Hosier, that if you make a nobleman’s spring legs as robust as his autumnal calves, you commit a monstrous impropriety, and make no allowance for the fatigues of the winter.

[Exit Mendlegs.

Jewel. I hope, my lord, these buckles have had the unspeakable satisfaction of being honoured with your lordship’s approbation?

Lord Fop. Why, they are of a pretty fancy; but don’t you think them rather of the smallest?

Jewel. My lord, they could not well be larger, to keep on your lordship’s shoe.

Lord Fop. My good sir, you forget that these matters are not as they used to be; formerly, indeed, the buckle was a sort of machine, intended to keep on the shoe; but the case is now quite reversed, and the shoe is of no earthly use, but to keep on the buckle.—Now give me my watches, [Servant fetches the watches,] my chapeau, [Servant brings a dress hat,] my handkerchief, [Servant pours some scented liquor on a handkerchief and brings it,] my snuff-box, [Servant brings snuff-box.] There, now the business of the morning is pretty well over,

[Exit Jeweller.

Fash. [Aside to Lory.] Well, Lory, what dost think on’t?—a very friendly reception from a brother, after three years’ absence!

Lory. [Aside to Tom Fashion.] Why, sir, ’tis your own fault—here you have stood ever since you came in, and have not commended any one thing that belongs to him.

[Servants all go off.

Fash. [Aside to Lory.] Nor ever shall, while they belong to a coxcomb.—[To Lord Foppington] Now your people of business are gone, brother, I hope I may obtain a quarter of an hour’s audience of you?

Lord Fop. Faith, Tam, I must beg you’ll excuse me at this time, for I have an engagement which I would not break for the salvation of mankind.—Hey!—there!—is my carriage at the door?—You’ll excuse me, brother.

[Going.

Fash. Shall you be back to dinner?