_All_. Oh, damn malice! St. Patrick's and his honour's by all
means.

_Flint_. Come away, then, lads, and first we'll parade round the
Market-cross, for the honour of King George.

1 _Sol_. Thank your honour.--Come along; St. Patrick, his honour,
and strong beer for ever! [_Exeunt_ SOLDIERS.]

_O'Con_. Get along, you thoughtless vagabonds! yet, upon my
conscience, 'tis very hard these poor fellows should scarcely have
bread from the soil they would die to defend.


_Enter_ DOCTOR ROSY.

Ah, my little Dr. Rosy, my Galen a-bridge, what's the news?

_Rosy_. All things are as they were, my Alexander; the justice is
as violent as ever: I felt his pulse on the matter again, and,
thinking his rage began to intermit, I wanted to throw in the bark of
good advice, but it would not do. He says you and your cut-throats
have a plot upon his life, and swears he had rather see his daughter
in a scarlet fever than in the arms of a soldier.

_O'Con_. Upon my word the army is very much obliged to him. Well,
then, I must marry the girl first, and ask his consent afterwards.

_Rosy_. So, then, the case of her fortune is desperate, hey?