human
This is no manager's feast, said Tinfoil;
gpt
All the manager's stage banquets are farces, and very sorry jokes into the bargain,
human
I wish old Morris had to eat his own suppers.
gpt
He must get a new set of teeth, or they'll prove a _deal_ too tough.
human
Hiss! turn him out! he's made a _pun_.
gpt
May I beg as a favour that you do not cut the salad too small? It loses much of its crispness.
human
Why, what a Nebuchadnezzar you are! However, sir, you shall be obeyed.
gpt
Who can fry fish? cried Tinfoil.
human
Here are two pairs of soles and some eels. Where's Caliban?
gpt
Here I am, sir, replied the man on his knees, blowing up a fire which he had kindled.
human
I have got the soup to mind.
gpt
Where's Stephano?
human
Cooling the wine, sir.
gpt
Who, then, can fry fish, I ask?
human
I can, sir, replied Tom;
gpt
Butter shalt thou have, thou disturber of the element. Have we not _Hiren_ here?
human
I wasn't _hired_ as a cook, at all events, replied Tom:
gpt
Then shalt thou have the _place_,
human
With all my heart and _soul_,
gpt
says the proverb. Winterbottom stood before Tom, and Quince with his back to them. Tom looked at Winterbottom, pointing slily to the frying-pan, and then to the hinder parts of Quince. Winterbottom snatched the hint and the frying-pan at the same moment. Quince squatted himself down with a serge, as they say at sea, quoting at the time--
human
Marry, our play is the most lamentable comedy
gpt
Oh, Lord! oh! oh!
human
and a half-dozen