--Mortal beautizome to be sure--I declare,
miss, it do make I quite warm zomehow to look at ye. [_A shout
without._] They be coming--Now, Henry!
_Sir Abel._ Now you'll see Bob!--now my dear boy, Bob!--here he comes.
[_Huzza._
_Enter_ HENRY _and two young Husbandmen._
_Ash._ 'Tis he, he has don't--Dang you all, why dan't ye shout? Huzza!
_Sir Abel._ Why, zounds, where's Bob?--I don't see Bob--Bless me, what
has become of Bob and my plough? [_Retires and takes out his glass._
_Ash._ Well, Henry, there be the prize, and there be the fine lady that
will gi' it thee.
_Henry._ Tell me who is that lovely creature?
_Ash._ The dater of Sir Philip Blandford.
_Henry._ What exquisite sweetness! Ah! should the father but resemble
her, I shall have but little to fear from his severity.
_Ash._ Miss, thic be the young man that ha got'n the goulden prize.
_Miss B._ This! I always thought ploughmen were coarse, vulgar
creatures, but he seems handsome and diffident.
_Ash._ Ees, quite pratty behaved--it were I that teach'd un.
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