_Cris._ Master Shoe-maker! do you mean to mock me?--No, no, I am no shoe-maker, but like some of your very fine gentlemen at the head of affairs--a poor cobbler at best.
_Sir B._ This fellow, Pander, has been commended by some blockhead, like himself for his insufferable bluntness, or he would never presume to be so shocking to the feelings of delicacy.
_Pan._ Bear with him, Sir Bilberry; this is a time when men will say whatever comes uppermost, paying no more respect to delicacy than Æsops’s cock to his diamond. If you would succeed, Sir Bilberry, you must descend to be perfectly reconciled to their oddities.
_Sir B._ I will be reconciled. Well, honest cobbler.--Do you love money?
_Sir B._ Honestly said. If you do me a favor, you shall have as much honesty as you please, and money into the bargain.
_Cris._ Who are you, and may it please you?
_Sir B._ I am Sir Bilberry Dibble, knight and baronet, of Dibble Hall, in this county; come to offer myself for your most ancient borough of Steady-town; should I be so happy as to obtain the ultimate zenith of my wish, you, Mr. Cobbler, shall soon find an alteration in the price of good ale; bread shall be but half the rate it stands at now; and above all, your trade shall flourish and your taxes fall; so that the cobbler as well as the prince shall have a glorious opportunity of saddling his spit with a fat sirloin; your right of common shall soon be restored, and without excise, or the doctor’s tithe; pigs, poultry, and plum puddings, shall crown your cupboards all the year. Now give me your vote, friend Crispin, and as you puff your fragrant essence from your stall in merry glee, you heel the shoe, and bless the hour you gave your vote for Dibble.
_Cris._ Oh, you fine powdered gentlemen are something like my codling tree last spring.
_Cris._ It then dealt a wonderful show of blossom, so much that I concluded a rare autumn; but, alas! I was mistaken; I had not so much as a crump. So ’tis with you who are candidates for boroughs, you promise very fair in the spring of your canvass, but in autumn of election, when we should expect the fruit of good works of you, we too often find you worthless, base, and barren.
_Sir B._ Nay, Mr. Cobbler, you are too severe in the conclusions; a man of my honour can never deceive you;--Can I, Pander?