Sir Har.  Wit, you Rascal!  Have you Scoundrels the impudence to suppose your selves reasonable Creatures?

Shr.  Sir, we are as much below Learning, indeed, as our Masters are above it; but why mayn’t a Servant have as good natural Parts?

Sir Har.  Mend your Manners, Sirrah; or you shall serve the Queen.

Shr.  Ev’ry Man ought to mend his Manners, Sir, that pretends to a Place at Court; but the Queen’s mightily oblig’d to some People.—­Has a Gentleman an impudent rakish Footman, not meaning my self, Sir, that wears his Linen, fingers his Money, and lies with his Mistress;—­You Dog, you shall serve the Queen.—­Has a Tradesman a Fop Prentice, that airs out his Horses, and heats his Wife, or an old Puritan a graceless Son, that runs to the Play-House instead of the Meeting, they are threathen’d with the Queen’s Service; so that Her Majesty’s good Subjects, drink her Health, wish success to her Arms, and send her all the Scoundrels i’the Nation.

Sir Har.  Fellows that han’t sense to value a Civil Employment are necessary to front an Army, whose thick Sculls may repulse the first Fury of the Enemy’s Cannon Bullets.

Shr.  I hope, then, the English are so wise to let the Dutch march foremost.—­But why, Sir, shou’d you Gentlemen ingross all the Pleasures o’Life, and not allow us poor Dogs to imitate you in our own Sphere;—­You wear lac’d Coats; We lac’d Liv’ries;—­You play at Picquet; We at All-Fours;—­You get drunk with Burgundy; We with Geneva;—­You pinck Holes with your Swords; We crack Sculls with our Sticks;—­You are Gentlemen; We are hang’d.

Sir Har.  A fine Relation; but, methinks, the latter Part of it might deter you from such Courses.

Shr.  I’m a Predestinarian, Sir; which is an Argument of a great Soul, and will no more baulk a drunken Frolick, than I would a pretty Lady that takes a Fancy to me.

Sir Har.  No more of your Impertinence; attend, I hear Company (Shrimp goes to the Door) Brigadier Blenheim return’d from the Army!

    Enter Collonel, and Knapsack.

Sir Har.  My noblest, dearest Collonel, let me imbrace you as a Britain, and as a Friend. Ajax ne’er boasted English Valour; Ulysses ne’er such Conduct; nor Alexander such Successes.  The Queen rejoices; the Parliament vote you Thanks; and ev’ry honest Loyal Heart bounds at our General’s Name.

Col.  Ay, Sir Harry, to be thus receiv’d, rewards the Soldier’s Toils; and, faith, we have maul’d the fancy French-men, near Twenty Thousand we left fast asleep, taught the remaining few a new Minuet-step, and sent ’em home to sing Te Deum.

Knap.  Ay, Sir, and if they are not satisfied, next Campaign the English shall stand still, and laugh at their Endeavours; the Dutch Snigger-snee ’em; the Scotch Cook them; and the wild Irish eat ’em.