That's werry fine!--but give me politics--
There's summat stirring even in the tricks
Of them vot's in to keep the t'others out,--
How I Should like to hear the fellers spout!
For some on 'em have sich a lot o' cheek,
If they war'n't stopp'd they'd go it for a week.

BRISKET.
But they're so wulgar, Bob, and call sich names
As quite the tag-rag of St. Giles' shames
The press too is so wenal, that they think
All party herrors for the sake o' chink.

BOB.
But ain't there no false lovers in them tales,
Vot hover wirgin hinnocence perwails?

BRISKET.
Vy, yes, but in the end the right one's married,
And after much to do the point is carried
So give me love sincere and tender,
And all the rest's not worth a bender.




SCENE XIX.


AN EPISTLE