SIR SAMP. Why, look you there, now. I'll maintain it, that by the
rule of right reason, this fellow ought to have been born without a
palate. 'S'heart, what should he do with a distinguishing taste? I
warrant now he'd rather eat a pheasant, than a piece of poor John;
and smell, now, why I warrant he can smell, and loves perfumes above
a stink. Why there's it; and music, don't you love music,
scoundrel?
JERE. Yes; I have a reasonable good ear, sir, as to jigs and
country dances, and the like; I don't much matter your solos or
sonatas, they give me the spleen.
SIR SAMP. The spleen, ha, ha, ha; a pox confound you--solos or
sonatas? 'Oons, whose son are you? How were you engendered,
muckworm?
JERE. I am by my father, the son of a chair-man; my mother sold
oysters in winter, and cucumbers in summer; and I came upstairs into
the world; for I was born in a cellar.
FORE. By your looks, you should go upstairs out of the world too,
friend.
SIR SAMP. And if this rogue were anatomized now, and dissected, he
has his vessels of digestion and concoction, and so forth, large
enough for the inside of a cardinal, this son of a cucumber.--These
things are unaccountable and unreasonable. Body o' me, why was not
I a bear, that my cubs might have lived upon sucking their paws?
Nature has been provident only to bears and spiders; the one has its
nutriment in his own hands; and t'other spins his habitation out of
his own entrails.
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