an Alderman does of eating up a single
_Turkey_.

La. _Rod_. Never fear him, Mr. _Nicknack_.

_Nick._ Nay, Madam, I have been Collonel i'th'_Train-Bands_ these seven
Years, and therefore ought not to want Courage; and tho' I never learnt to
fence, there's an admirable Master teaches three times a Week, at the
_Swan Tavern_ in _Cornhil_. [_Exeunt_.

Mrs. _Lov_. Now will I be Spitchcockt, if she han't an Inclination for the
_Collonel_, to coquet, and flirt and fleer, and plague half Mankind, only
because they like her, may be what you call a fine Lady, but in my mind
she has more fantastical Airs than a Kettle-Drummer. [_Exit._

SCENE, _a Room in the_ Rose-Tavern.

_The Bell rings_.

[_Bar-keeper without_.] Where a Pox are you all; must Company wait an Hour
for a Room?

[_A noise of Drawers_.] Coming, coming, coming, Sir.

_Enter a Drawer with Lights_, Shrimp, Knapsack, and Master _Totty_.

_Draw_. Please to be here, Gentlemen?

_Shr_. What's become of your Beau-Drawer, that wore a long _Spanish_ Wig,
lac'd Linnen, silk Stockings, and a Patch?

_Draw_. He happen'd, Sir, to make bold with a silver _Monteth,_ and is
gone for a Soldier--What Wine are you for Gentlemen?

_Shr._ [_Aside to the Drawer_.] D'you know Sir _Harry Sprightly,_ Friend?

_Draw_. Yes, Sir.

_Shr_. What Wine does he drink?

_Draw_. Three and Six-penny, Sir.

_Shr_. I am his Servant, draw us the same.

_Tot._ Bring me some Sack. [_Exit Drawer._

_Shr._ Well, Master, what think you of _London_ now, is not the rattling
of Coaches, the ringing of Bells, and the joyful Cry of _Great and good
News from Holland_, preferrable to the Country, where you see nothing but
Barns and Cow-houses, hear nothing but the grunting of Swine, and converse
with nothing but the Justice, the Jack-daw, and your old Grand-mother.

_Tot._ Ay, marry is it, and if they ever get me there again, I'll give 'em
leave to pickle and preserve me; here are Drums and Trumpets, Soldiers and
Sempstresses, and fine Sights in ev'ry Street: In the Country we are glad
to go four Miles to see a House o'fire. Nay, wou'd you believe it, we
ha'n't so much as a Tavern in our Town; Gentlemen are forc'd to use Gammer
_Grimes's_ Thatch'd Ale-house, except the Curate be with 'em, and then
they smoke, and drink in the Vestry.

[_Drawer enters with Wine._

_Knap._ Come, Master, here's my hearty Service t'you.

_Tott._ Your hearty Servant thanks you, Sir--Mr. _Shrimp_