Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 8.djvu/347

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Col. Here, miss; they say fingers were made before forks, and hands before knives.

Lady Smart. Methinks this pudding is too much boil'd.

Lady Answ. O! madam, they say a pudding is poison, when it is too much boil'd.

Neverout. Miss, shall I help you to a pigeon? here's a pigeon so finely roasted, it cries, Come eat me.

Miss. No, sir; I thank you.

Neverout. Why, then you may choose.

Miss. I have chosen already.

Neverout. Well, you may be worse offered, before you are twice married.

''Ld. Smart''. Why, colonel, you don't mean to eat all that soup.

Col. O, my lord, this is my sick dish; when I'm well, I'll have a bigger.

Miss. [to Col.] Sup, Simon; very good broth.

Neverout. This seems to be a good pullet.

Miss. I warrant, Mr. Neverout knows what's good for himself.

''Ld. Sparkish''. Tom, I sha'nt take your word for it; help me to a wing.

Neverout. Egad, I can't hit the joint.

''Ld. Sparkish''. Why then, think of a cuckold.

Neverout. O! now I have nick'd it.

[Gives it to Ld. Sparkish.

''Ld. Sparkish''. Why, a man may eat this, though his wife lay a dying. . VIII.