The young Gentleman by
his deportment seems to be the Darling of a Family, and Heir to a good
Estate.

_Tot_. I shall have Five Hundred a Year, Sir, when my Grand-mother gives
up the Ghost; but at present she allows me but Eighteen Pence a Week for
reading the Book of Martyrs to her, copying Receipts, and supporting her
about the House.

_Shr_. Eighteen Pence a Week! Why the Kitchin Wench gets more for her
Coney Skins; but what allowance are you to have now, Master, you should
have handsome Lodgings in _Pall-Mall_ Tutors to embellish you, dress out
for _Whites_, keep a Chair by the Week, and an impudent Footman to knock
down People before you.

_Tot_. Ay, but my Grand-mother charg'd me on her Blessing never to go to
that end o'the Town; she says, they are abominable Spendthrifts there; bid
me remember the Prodigal Son, and has given me only a broad _Jacobus_ to
pay for Post Letters, and a Hundred Pound Bill upon Sir _Francis_ to put
me Clerk to an Attorney.

_Shr_. Clerk to an Attorney! Why the Nation swarms with 'em; so many young
Fellows now are bred to that Profession, Men, and their Wives are forc'd
to go to Law to find bus'ness for their Children.

_Knap_. Hang the Hundred Pounds; we'll spend it, Master, in showing you
the Town, the Lyons, and the Tombs, the Bears, and the Morocco's, the
Jew's Synagogue, and the Gyants at _Guild-hall_, my Lord-Mayor's great
Coach, and my Lady Mayoress's great Tower.

_Tot_. Shan't we go to the Play-house too, and see _Pinkeman, Bullock_,
and _Jubilee Dicky_?

_Knap_. Ay, and behind the Scenes too amongst the pretty Actresses; I must
have you a smart Youth, understand the finish'd Vices o'the Town, learn
to swear like a Gentleman of Ten Thousand a Year, few Men of Estates are
bred to Conversation, game like a desp'rate younger Brother, several
embroider'd Suits are known to live by't, drink abundantly to prevent
dull-thinking, and Whore lustily to encourage the Dispensary that gives
the poor Physick for nothing. Mr. _Shrimp_ here knows the World; and, I
warrant, for cogging a Die, bullying a Coward, bilking a Hackney Coachman,
and storming a Nest of Whores in _Drury-lane_, not a Master of Arts in
either University can come near him.

_Tot_. Fegs, so I will, they shan't think to cow me any longer; one cou'd
never stir out o'the Room, but my Grand-mother was purring after a Body,
and if she heard one got a little merry at _T. Totum_, with the Maids,
she'd quaver out _Totty_,