_Lord Fop_. I tell thee they pinch me execrably.
_Shoe_. Why then, my lord, if those shoes pinch you, I'll be
damned.
_Lord Fop_. Why, will thou undertake to persuade me I cannot
feel?
_Shoe_. Your lordship may please to feel what you think fit,
but that shoe does not hurt you--I think I understand my trade.
_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 Tor the fatigues of the winter. [_Exit--_
MENDLEGS.]
_Jewel_. I hope, my lord, these buckles have had the