Had this volume been a farce, which, unless everyone’s life and opinions are to be looked upon as a farce as well as mine, I see no reason to suppose⁠—the last chapter, Sir, had finished the first act of it, and then this chapter must have set off thus.

Ptr..r..r..ing⁠—twing⁠—twang⁠—prut⁠—trut⁠⸺’tis a cursed bad fiddle.⁠—Do you know whether my fiddle’s in tune or no?⁠—trut..prut..⁠—They should be fifths.⁠⸺’Tis wickedly strung⁠—tr⁠ ⁠… a.e.i.o.u.-twang.⁠—The bridge is a mile too high, and the sound post absolutely down,⁠—else⁠—trut . . prut⁠—hark! ’tis not so bad a tone.⁠—Diddle diddle, diddle diddle, diddle diddle, dum. There is nothing in playing before good judges,⁠—but there’s a man there⁠—no⁠—not him with the bundle under his arm⁠—the grave man in black.⁠—’Sdeath! not the gentleman with the sword on.⁠—Sir, I had rather play a Caprichio to Calliope herself, than draw my bow across my fiddle before that very man; and yet I’ll stake my Cremona to a Jew’s trump, which is the greatest musical odds that ever were laid, that I will this moment stop three hundred and fifty leagues out of tune upon my fiddle, without punishing one single nerve that belongs to him⁠—Twaddle diddle, tweddle diddle,⁠—twiddle diddle,⁠⸺⁠twoddle diddle,⁠—twuddle diddle,⁠⸺⁠prut trut⁠—krish⁠—krash⁠—krush.⁠—I’ve undone you, Sir,⁠—but you see he’s no worse,⁠—and was Apollo to take his fiddle after me, he can make him no better.

Diddle diddle, diddle diddle, diddle diddle⁠—hum⁠—dum⁠—drum.

—Your worships and your reverences love music⁠—and God has made you all with good ears⁠—and some of you play delightfully yourselves⁠—trut-prut,⁠—prut-trut.

O! there is⁠—whom I could sit and hear whole days,⁠—whose talents lie in making what he fiddles to be felt,⁠—who inspires me with his joys and hopes, and puts the most hidden springs of my heart into motion.⁠—If you would borrow five guineas of me, Sir,⁠—which is generally ten guineas more than I have to spare⁠—or you Messrs. Apothecary and Taylor, want your bills paying,⁠—that’s your time.