ACT V.—Scene I.

Enter Merchant, solus.

Merch. I will have no great store of company at the wedding: a couple of neighbours and their wives; and we will have a capon in stewed broth, with marrow, and a good piece of beef, stuck with rosemary.

Enter Jasper, with his face mealed.

Jasp. Forbear thy pains, fond man, it is too late.

Merch. Heav'n bless me! Jasper!

Jasp. Ay, I am his ghost,

Whom thou hast injur'd for his constant love:

Fond worldly wretch, who dost not understand

In death that true hearts cannot parted be.

First know, thy daughter is quite borne away

On wings of angels, through the liquid air

Too far out of thy reach, and never more

Shalt thou behold her face: but she and I

Will in another world enjoy our loves,

Where neither father's anger, poverty,

Nor any cross that troubles earthly men,

Shall make us sever our united hearts.

And never shalt thou sit, or be alone

In any place, but I will visit thee

With ghastly looks, and put into thy mind

The great offences which thou didst to me.

When thou art at thy table with thy friends,

Merry in heart, and fill'd with swelling wine,

I'll come in midst of all thy pride and mirth,

Invisible to all men but thyself,

And whisper such a sad tale in thine ear,

Shall make thee let the cup fall from thy hand,

And stand as mute and pale as death itself.

Merch. Forgive me, Jasper! Oh! what might I do,

Tell me, to satisfy thy troubled ghost?

Jasp. There is no means, too late thou think'st on this.

Merch. But tell me what were best for me to do?

Jasp. Repent thy deed, and satisfy my father,

And beat fond Humphrey out of thy doors. [Exit Jasper.

Enter Humphrey.

Wife. Look, George, his very ghost would have folks beaten.

Humph. Father, my bride is gone, fair Mistress Luce.

My soul's the font of vengeance, mischief's sluice.

Merch. Hence, fool, out of my sight, with thy fond passion

Thou hast undone me.

Humph. Hold, my father dear,

For Luce thy daughter's sake, that had no peer.

Merch. Thy father, fool? There's some blows more, begone. [Beats him.

Jasper, I hope thy ghost be well appeased

To see thy will perform'd; now will I go

To satisfy thy father for thy wrongs. [Exit.

Humph. What shall I do? I have been beaten twice,

And Mistress Luce is gone. Help me, device:

Since my true love is gone, I never more,

Whilst I do live, upon the sky will pore;

But in the dark will wear out my shoe-soles

In passion, in Saint Faith's Church under Paul's. [Exit.

Wife. George, call Ralph hither; if you love me, call Ralph hither. I have the bravest thing for him to do, George; prithee call him quickly.

Cit. Ralph, why Ralph, boy!

Enter Ralph.

Ralph. Here, sir.

Cit. Come hither, Ralph, come to thy mistress, boy.

Wife. Ralph, I would have thee call all the youths together in battle-ray, with drums, and guns, and flags, and march to Mile End in pompous fashion, and there exhort your soldiers to be merry and wise, and to keep their beards from burning, Ralph; and then skirmish, and let your flags fly, and cry, Kill, kill, kill! My husband shall lend you his jerkin, Ralph, and there's a scarf; for the rest, the house shall furnish you, and we'll pay for't: do it bravely, Ralph, and think before whom you perform, and what person you represent.

Ralph. I warrant you, mistress, if I do it not, for the honour of the city, and the credit of my master, let me never hope for freedom.

Wife. 'Tis well spoken i'faith; go thy ways, thou art a spark indeed.

Cit. Ralph, double your files bravely, Ralph.

Ralph. I warrant you, sir. [Exit Ralph.

Cit. Let him look narrowly to his service, I shall take him else; I was there myself a pike-man once, in the hottest of the day, wench; had my feather shot sheer away, the fringe of my pike burnt off with powder, my pate broken with a scouring-stick, and yet I thank God I am here. [Drum within.

Wife. Hark, George, the drums!

Cit. Ran, tan, tan, tan, ran tan. Oh, wench, an' thou hadst but seen little Ned of Aldgate, drum Ned, how he made it roar again, and laid on like a tyrant, and then struck softly till the Ward came up, and then thundered again, and together we go: "Sa, sa, sa," bounce quoth the guns; "Courage, my hearts," quoth the captains; "Saint George," quoth the pike-men; and withal here they lay, and there they lay; and yet for all this I am here, wench.

Wife. Be thankful for it, George, for indeed 'tis wonderful.

Enter Ralph and his Company, with drums and colours.

Ralph. March fair, my hearts; lieutenant, beat the rear up; ancient, let your colours fly; but have a great care of the butchers' hooks at Whitechapel, they have been the death of many a fair ancient. Open your files, that I may take a view both of your persons and munition. Sergeant, call a muster.

Serg. A stand. William Hamerton, pewterer.

Ham. Here, Captain.

Ralph. A croslet and a Spanish pike; 'tis well, can you shake it with a terror?

Ham. I hope so, captain.

Ralph. Charge upon me—'tis with the weakest. Put more strength, William Hamerton, more strength. As you were again; proceed, sergeant.

Serg. George Green-goose, poulterer.

Green. Here.

Ralph. Let me see your piece, neighbour Green-goose. When was she shot in?

Green. An' like you, master captain, I made a shot even now, partly to scour her, and partly for audacity.

Ralph. It should seem so, certainly, for her breath is yet inflamed; besides, there is a main fault in the touch-hole, it stinketh. And I tell you, moreover, and believe it, ten such touch-holes would poison the army; get you a feather, neighbour, get you a feather, sweet oil and paper, and your piece may do well enough yet. Where's your powder?

Green. Here.

Ralph. What, in a paper? As I am a soldier and a gentleman, it craves a martial court: you ought to die for't. Where's your horn? Answer me to that.

Green. An't like you, sir, I was oblivious.

Ralph. It likes me not it should be so; 'tis a shame for you, and a scandal to all our neighbours, being a man of worth and estimation, to leave your horn behind you: I am afraid 'twill breed example. But let me tell you no more on't; stand till I view you all. What's become o' th' nose of your flask?

1st Sold. Indeed, la' captain, 'twas blown away with powder.

Ralph. Put on a new one at the city's charge. Where's the flint of this piece?

2nd Sold. The drummer took it out to light tobacco.

Ralph. 'Tis a fault, my friend; put it in again. You want a nose, and you a flint; sergeant, take a note on't, for I mean to stop it in their pay. Remove and march; soft and fair, gentlemen, soft and fair: double your files; as you were; faces about. Now you with the sodden face, keep in there: look to your match, sirrah, it will be in your fellow's flask anon. So make a crescent now, advance your pikes, stand and give ear. Gentlemen, countrymen, friends, and my fellow-soldiers, I have brought you this day from the shop of security and the counters of content, to measure out in these furious fields honour by the ell and prowess by the pound. Let it not, O let it not, I say, be told hereafter, the noble issue of this city fainted; but bear yourselves in this fair action like men, valiant men, and free men. Fear not the face of the enemy, nor the noise of the guns; for believe me, brethren, the rude rumbling of a brewer's car is more terrible, of which you have a daily experience: neither let the stink of powder offend you, since a more valiant stink is always with you. To a resolved mind his home is everywhere. I speak not this to take away the hope of your return; for you shall see (I do not doubt it), and that very shortly, your loving wives again, and your sweet children, whose care doth bear you company in baskets. Remember, then, whose cause you have in hand, and like a sort of true-born scavengers, scour me this famous realm of enemies. I have no more to say but this: Stand to your tacklings, lads, and show to the world you can as well brandish a sword as shake an apron. Saint George, and on, my hearts!

Omnes. Saint George, Saint George! [Exeunt.

Wife. 'Twas well done, Ralph; I'll send thee a cold capon a field, and a bottle of March beer; and, it may be, come myself to see thee.

Cit. Nell, the boy hath deceived me much; I did not think it had been in him. He has perform'd such a matter, wench, that, if I live, next year I'll have him Captain of the Gallifoist, or I'll want my will.

Enter Old Merry-thought.

Old Mer. Yet, I thank God, I break not a wrinkle more than I had; not a stoop, boys. Care, live with cats, I defy thee! My heart is as sound as an oak; and tho' I want drink to wet my whistle, I can sing,

"Come no more there, boys; come no more there:

For we shall never, whilst we live, come any more there."

Enter a Boy with a coffin.

Boy. God save you, sir.

Old Mer. It's a brave boy. Canst thou sing?

Boy. Yes, sir, I can sing, but 'tis not so necessary at this time.

Old Mer. "Sing we, and chaunt it,

Whilst love doth grant it."

Boy. Sir, sir, if you knew what I have brought you, you would have little list to sing.

Old Mer. "Oh, the Mimon round,

Full long I have thee sought,

And now I have thee found,

And what hast thou here brought?"

Boy. A coffin, sir, and your dead son Jasper in it.

Old Mer. Dead!

"Why farewell he:

Thou wast a bonny boy,

And I did love thee."

Enter Jasper.

Jasp. Then I pray you, sir, do so still.

Old Mer. Jasper's ghost!

"Thou art welcome from Stygian-lake so soon,

Declare to me what wondrous things

In Pluto's Court are done."

Jasp. By my troth, sir, I ne'er came there, 'tis too hot for me, sir.

Old Mer. A merry ghost, a very merry ghost.

"And where is your true love? Oh, where is yours?"

Jasp. Marry look you, sir. [Heaves up the coffin.

Old Mer. Ah ha! Art thou good at that i'faith?

"With hey trixie terlerie-whiskin,

The world it runs on wheels;

When the young man's frisking

Up goes the maiden's heels."

Mistress Merry-thought and Michael within.

Mist. Mer. What, Mr. Merry-thought, will you not let's in?

What do you think shall become of us?

Old Mer. What voice is that that calleth at our door?

Mist. Mer. You know me well enough, I am sure I have not been such a stranger to you.

Old Mer. "And some they whistled, and some they sung,

Hey down, down:

And some did loudly say,

Ever as the Lord Barnet's horn blew,

Away, Musgrave, away."

Mist. Mer. You will not have us starve here, will you, Master

Merry-thought?

Jasp. Nay, good sir, be persuaded, she is my mother. If her offences have been great against you, let your own love remember she is yours, and so forgive her.

Luce. Good Master Merry-thought, let me entreat you, I will not be denied.

Mist. Mer. Why, Master Merry-thought, will you be a vext thing still?

Old Mer. Woman, I take you to my love again, but you shall sing before you enter; therefore despatch your song, and so come in.

Mist. Mer. Well, you must have your will when all's done. Michael, what song canst thou sing, boy?

Mich. I can sing none forsooth but "A Lady's Daughter of Paris," properly.

Mist. Mer. [song.] "It was a lady's daughter," &c.

Old Mer. Come, you're welcome home again.

"If such danger be in playing,

And jest must to earnest turn,

You shall go no more a-maying"——

Merch. [within.] Are you within, Sir Master Merry-thought?

Jasp. It is my master's voice, good sir; go hold him in talk whilst we convey ourselves into some inward room.

Old Mer. What are you? Are you merry? You must be very merry if you enter.

Merch. I am, sir.

Old Mer. Sing, then.

Merch. Nay, good sir, open to me.

Old Mer. Sing, I say, or by the merry heart you come not in.

Merch. Well, sir, I'll sing.

"Fortune my foe," &c.

Old Mer. You are welcome, sir, you are welcome: you see your entertainment, pray you be merry.

Merch. Oh, Master Merry-thought, I'm come to ask you

Forgiveness for the wrongs I offered you,

And your most virtuous son; they're infinite,

Yet my contrition shall be more than they.

I do confess my hardness broke his heart,

For which just Heav'n hath given me punishment

More than my age can carry; his wand'ring sprite,

Not yet at rest, pursues me everywhere,

Crying, I'll haunt thee for thy cruelty.

My daughter she is gone, I know not how.

Taken invisible, and whether living,

Or in grave, 'tis yet uncertain to me.

Oh, Master Merry-thought, these are the weights

Will sink me to my grave. Forgive me, sir.

Old Mer. Why, sir, I do forgive you, and be merry.

And if the wag in's lifetime play'd the knave,

Can you forgive him too?

Merch. With all my heart, sir.

Old Mer. Speak it again, and heartily.

Merch. I do, sir.

Now by my soul I do.

Old Mer. "With that came out his paramour,

She was as white as the lily flower,

Hey troul, troly loly.

With that came out her own dear knight,

He was as true as ever did fight," &c.

Enter Luce and Jasper.

Sir, if you will forgive 'em, clap their hands together, there's no more to be said i' th' matter.

Merch. I do, I do!

Cit. I do not like this. Peace, boys, hear me one of you, everybody's part is come to an end but Ralph's, and he's left out.

Boy. 'Tis long of yourself, sir, we have nothing to do with his part.

Cit. Ralph, come away, make on him as you have done of the rest, boys, come.

Wife. Now, good husband, let him come out and die.

Cit. He shall, Nell; Ralph, come away quickly and die, boy.

Boy. 'Twill be very unfit he should die, sir, upon no occasion, and in a comedy too.

Cit. Take you no care for that, Sir Boy; is not his part at an end, think you, when he's dead? Come away, Ralph.

Enter Ralph with a forked arrow through his head.

Ralph. When I was mortal, this my costive corps

Did lap up figs and raisins in the Strand,

Where sitting, I espy'd a lovely dame,

Whose master wrought with lingel and with awl,

And underground he vampéd many a boot.

Straight did her love prick forth me, tender sprig,

To follow feats of arms in warlike wise,

Through Waltham Desert; where I did perform

Many achievements, and did lay on ground

Huge Barbaroso, that insulting giant,

And all his captives soon set at liberty.

Then honour prick'd me from my native soil

Into Moldavia, where I gain'd the love

Of Pompiana, his beloved daughter;

But yet prov'd constant to the black-thumbed maid

Susan, and scornéd Pompiana's love.

Yet liberal I was, and gave her pins,

And money for her father's officers.

I then returnéd home, and thrust myself

In action, and by all men chosen was

The Lord of May, where I did flourish it,

With scarfs and rings, and posie in my hand.

After this action I preferréd was,

And chosen City Captain at Mile End,

With hat and feather, and with leading staff,

And train'd my men, and brought them all off clean,

Save one man that berayed him with the noise.

But all these things I, Ralph, did undertake,

Only for my belovéd Susan's sake.

Then coming home, and sitting in my shop

With apron blue, Death came unto my stall

To cheapen aquavitæ, but ere I

Could take the bottle down, and fill a taste,

Death caught a pound of pepper in his hand,

And sprinkled all my face and body o'er,

And in an instant vanishéd away.

Cit. 'Tis a pretty fiction, i'faith.

Ralph. Then took I up my bow and shaft in hand,

And walkéd in Moorfields to cool myself,

But there grim cruel Death met me again,

And shot his forkéd arrow through my head.

And now I faint; therefore be warn'd by me,

My fellows every one, of forkéd heads.

Farewell, all you good boys in merry London,

Ne'er shall we more upon Shrove Tuesday meet,

And pluck down houses of iniquity.

My pain increaseth: I shall never more

When clubs are cried be brisk upon my legs,

Nor daub a satin gown with rotten eggs.

Set up a stake, oh never more I shall;

I die! Fly, fly, my soul, to Grocers Hall! Oh, oh, oh, &c.

Wife. Well said, Ralph, do your obeisance to the gentlemen, and go your ways. Well said, Ralph. [Exit Ralph.

Old Mer. Methinks all we, thus kindly and unexpectedly reconciled, should not part without a song.

Merch. A good motion.

Old Mer. Strike up, then.

Song.

Better music ne'er was known,

Than a quire of hearts in one.

Let each other, that hath been

Troubled with the gall or spleen,

Learn of us to keep his brow

Smooth and plain, as yours are now.

Sing though before the hour of dying,

He shall rise, and then be crying

Heyho, 'tis nought but mirth

That keeps the body from the earth. [Exeunt omnes.

EPILOGUS.

Cit. Come, Nell, shall we go? The play's done.

Wife. Nay, by my faith, George, I have more manners than so, I'll speak to these gentlemen first. I thank you all, gentlemen, for your patience and countenance to Ralph, a poor fatherless child, and if I may see you at my house, it should go hard but I would have a pottle of wine, and a pipe of tobacco for you, for truly I hope you like the youth, but I would be glad to know the truth. I refer it to your own discretions, whether you will applaud him or no, for I will wink, and whilst, you shall do what you will.—I thank you with all my heart: God give you good night. Come, George.

The Rehearsal.

——♦——

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

SCENE.—Brentford.

PROLOGUE.

We might well call this short mock-play of ours,

A posy made of weeds instead of flowers;

Yet such have been presented to your noses,

And there are such, I fear, who thought 'em roses.

Would some of 'em were here, to see, this night,

What stuff it is in which they took delight.

Here brisk insipid rogues, for wit, let fall

Sometimes dull sense; but oft'ner none at all.

There, strutting heroes, with a grim-fac'd train,

Shall brave the gods, in King Cambyses' vein.

For (changing rules, of late, as if man writ

In spite of reason, nature, art and wit)

Our poets make us laugh at tragedy,

And with their comedies they make us cry.

Now critics, do your worst, that here are met;

For, like a rook, I have hedg'd in my bet.

If you approve, I shall assume the state

Of those high-flyers whom I imitate:

And justly too, for I will teach you more

Than ever they would let you know before.

I will not only show the feats they do,

But give you all their reasons for 'em too.

Some honour may to me from hence arise;

But if, by my endeavours you grow wise,

And what you once so prais'd, shall now despise;

Then I'll cry out, swell'd with poetic rage,

'Tis I, John Lacy, have reform'd your stage.

ACT I.—Scene I.

Johnson and Smith.

Johns. Honest Frank! I am glad to see thee with all my heart: how long hast thou been in town?

Smith. Faith, not above an hour: and, if I had not met you here, I had gone to look you out; for I long to talk with you freely of all the strange new things we have heard in the country.

Johns. And, by my troth, I have long'd as much to laugh with you at all the impertinent, dull, fantastical things, we are tired out with here.

Smith. Dull and fantastical! that's an excellent composition. Pray, what are our men of business doing?

Johns. I ne'er inquire after 'em. Thou knowest my humour lies another way. I love to please myself as much, and to trouble others as little as I can; and therefore do naturally avoid the company of those solemn fops, who, being incapable of reason, and insensible of wit and pleasure, are always looking grave, and troubling one another, in hopes to be thought men of business.

Smith. Indeed, I have ever observed, that your grave lookers are the dullest of men.

Johns. Ay, and of birds and beasts too: your gravest bird is an owl, and your gravest beast is an ass.

Smith. Well: but how dost thou pass thy time?

Johns. Why, as I used to do; eat, drink as well as I can, have a friend to chat with in the afternoon, and sometimes see a play; where there are such things, Frank, such hideous, monstrous things, that it has almost made me forswear the stage, and resolve to apply myself to the solid nonsense of your men of business, as the more ingenious pastime.

Smith. I have heard, indeed, you have had lately many new plays; and our country wits commend 'em.

Johns. Ay, so do some of our city wits too; but they are of the new kind of wits.

Smith. New kind! what kind is that?

Johns. Why, your virtuousi; your civil persons, your drolls; fellows that scorn to imitate nature; but are given altogether to elevate and surprise.

Smith. Elevate and surprise! prithee, make me understand the meaning of that.

Johns. Nay, by my troth, that's a hard matter: I don't understand that myself. 'Tis a phrase they have got among them, to express their no-meaning by. I'll tell you, as near as I can, what it is. Let me see; 'tis fighting, loving, sleeping, rhyming, dying, dancing, singing, crying; and everything, but thinking and sense.

Mr. Bayes passes over the stage.

Bayes. Your most obsequious, and most observant, very servant, sir.

Johns. Odso, this is an author. I'll go fetch him to you.

Smith. No, prithee let him alone.

Johns. Nay, by the Lord, I'll have him.

[Goes after him.

Here he is; I have caught him. Pray, sir, now for my sake, will you do a favour to this friend of mine?

Bayes. Sir, it is not within my small capacity to do favours, but receive 'em; especially from a person that does wear the honourable title you are pleased to impose, sir, upon this—sweet sir, your servant.

Smith. Your humble servant, sir.

Johns. But wilt thou do me a favour, now?

Bayes. Ay, sir, what is't?

Johns. Why, to tell him the meaning of thy last play.

Bayes. How, sir, the meaning? Do you mean the plot?

Johns. Ay, ay; anything.

Bayes. Faith, sir, the intrigo's now quite out of my head; but I have a new one in my pocket that I may say is a virgin; it has never yet been blown upon. I must tell you one thing: 'tis all new wit, and, though I say it, a better than my last; and you know well enough how that took. In fine, it shall read, and write, and act, and plot, and show, ay, and pit, box, and gallery, egad, with any play in Europe.[1] This morning is its last rehearsal, in their habits, and all that, as it is to be acted; and if you and your friend will do it but the honour to see it in its virgin attire; though, perhaps, it may blush, I shall not be ashamed to discover its nakedness unto you. I think it is in this pocket. [Puts his hand in his pocket.

Johns. Sir, I confess I am not able to answer you in this new way; but if you please to lead, I shall be glad to follow you, and I hope my friend will do so too.

Smith. Sir, I have no business so considerable as should keep me from your company.

Bayes. Yes, here it is. No, cry you mercy: this is my book of Drama Commonplaces, the mother of many other plays.

Johns. Drama Commonplaces! pray what's that?

Bayes. Why, sir, some certain helps that we men of art have found it convenient to make use of.

Smith. How, sir, helps for wit?

Bayes. Ay, sir, that's my position. And I do here aver that no man yet the sun e'er shone upon has parts sufficient to furnish out a stage, except it were by the help of these my rules.[2]

Johns. What are those rules, I pray?

Bayes. Why, sir, my first rule is the rule of transversion, or Regula Duplex; changing verse into prose, or prose into verse, alternativè as you please.

Smith. Well; but how is this done by a rule, sir?

Bayes. Why thus, sir; nothing so easy when understood. I take a book in my hand, either at home or elsewhere, for that's all one; if there be any wit in't, as there is no book but has some, I transverse it; that is, if it be prose, put it into verse (but that takes up some time), and if it be verse, put it into prose.

Johns. Methinks, Mr. Bayes, that putting verse into prose should be called transprosing.

Bayes. By my troth, sir, 'tis a very good notion; and hereafter it shall be so.

Smith. Well, sir, and what d'ye do with it then?

Bayes. Make it my own. 'Tis so changed that no man can know it. My next rule is the rule of record, by way of table-book. Pray observe.

Johns. We hear you, sir; go on.

Bayes. As thus. I come into a coffee-house, or some other place where witty men resort, I make as if I minded nothing; do you mark? but as soon as any one speaks, pop I slap it down, and make that too my own.

Johns. But, Mr. Bayes, are you not sometimes in danger of their making you restore, by force, what you have gotten thus by art?

Bayes. No, sir; the world's unmindful: they never take notice of these things.

Smith. But pray, Mr. Bayes, among all your other rules, have you no one rule for invention?

Bayes. Yes, sir, that's my third rule that I have here in my pocket.

Smith. What rule can that be, I wonder?

Bayes. Why, sir, when I have anything to invent, I never trouble my head about it, as other men do; but presently turn over this book, and there I have, at one view, all that Persius, Montaigne, Seneca's Tragedies, Horace, Juvenal, Claudian, Pliny, Plutarch's Lives, and the rest, have ever thought upon this subject: and so, in a trice, by leaving out a few words, or putting in others of my own, the business is done.

Johns. Indeed, Mr. Bayes, this is as sure and compendious a way of wit as ever I heard of.

Bayes. Sir, if you make the least scruples of the efficacy of these my rules, do but come to the playhouse, and you shall judge of 'em by the effects.

Smith. We'll follow you, sir. [Exeunt.

Enter three Players on the stage.

1st Play. Have you your part perfect?

2nd Play. Yes, I have it without book; but I don't understand how it is to be spoken.

3rd Play. And mine is such a one, as I can't guess for my life what humour I'm to be in; whether angry, melancholy, merry, or in love. I don't know what to make on't.

1st Play. Phoo! the author will be here presently, and he'll tell us all. You must know, this is the new way of writing, and these hard things please forty times better than the old plain way. For, look you, sir, the grand design upon the stage is to keep the auditors in suspense; for to guess presently at the plot, and the sense, tires them before the end of the first act: now here, every line surprises you, and brings in new matter. And then, for scenes, clothes, and dances, we put quite down all that ever went before us; and those are the things, you know, that are essential to a play.

2nd Play. Well, I am not of thy mind; but, so it gets us money, 'tis no great matter.

Enter Bayes, Johnson, and Smith.

Bayes. Come, come in, gentlemen. You're very welcome, Mr.—a—. Ha' you your part ready?

1st Play. Yes, sir.

Bayes. But do you understand the true humour of it?

1st Play. Ay, sir, pretty well.

Bayes. And Amaryllis, how does she do? does not her armour become her?

3rd Play. Oh, admirably!

Bayes. I'll tell you now a pretty conceit. What do you think I'll make 'em call her anon, in this play?

Smith. What, I pray?

Bayes. Why, I make 'em call her Armaryllis, because of her armour: ha, ha, ha!

Johns. That will be very well indeed.

Bayes. Ay, 'tis a pretty little rogue; but—a—come, let's sit down. Look you, sirs, the chief hinge of this play, upon which the whole plot moves and turns, and that causes the variety of all the several accidents, which, you know, are the things in nature that make up the grand refinement of a play, is, that I suppose two kings of the same place; as for example, at Brentford, for I love to write familiarly. Now the people having the same relations to 'em both, the same affections, the same duty, the same obedience, and all that, are divided among themselves in point of devoir and interest, how to behave themselves equally between 'em: these kings differing sometimes in particular; though, in the main, they agree. (I know not whether I make myself well understood.)

Johns. I did not observe you, sir: pray say that again.

Bayes. Why, look you, sir (nay, I beseech you be a little curious in taking notice of this, or else you'll never understand my notion of the thing), the people being embarrass'd by their equal ties to both, and the sovereigns concern'd in a reciprocal regard, as well to their own interest, as the good of the people, make a certain kind of a—you understand me—upon which, there do arise several disputes, turmoils, heart-burnings, and all that—in fine, you'll apprehend it better when you see it.

[Exit, to call the Players.

Smith. I find the author will be very much obliged to the players, if they can make any sense out of this.

Enter Bayes.

Bayes. Now, gentlemen, I would fain ask your opinion of one thing. I have made a prologue and an epilogue, which may both serve for either; that is, the prologue for the epilogue, or the epilogue for the prologue;[3] (do you mark?) nay, they may both serve too, egad, for any other play as well as this.

Smith. Very well; that's indeed artificial.

Bayes. And I would fain ask your judgments, now, which of them would do best for the prologue? for, you must know there is, in nature, but two ways of making very good prologues: the one is by civility, by insinuation, good language, and all that, to—a—in a manner, steal your plaudit from the courtesy of the auditors: the other, by making use of some certain personal things, which may keep a hank upon such censuring persons, as cannot otherways, egad, in nature, be hindered from being too free with their tongues. To which end, my first prologue is, that I come out in a long black veil, and a great huge hangman behind me, with a furr'd cap, and his sword drawn; and there tell 'em plainly, that if out of good-nature, they will not like my play, egad, I'll e'en kneel down, and he shall cut my head off. Whereupon they all clapping—a—

Smith. Ay, but suppose they don't.

Bayes. Suppose! sir, you may suppose what you please; I have nothing to do with your suppose, sir; nor am at all mortified at it; not at all, sir; egad, not one jot, sir. Suppose, quoth-a!—ha, ha, ha! [Walks away.

Johns. Phoo! prithee, Bayes, don't mind what he says; he is a fellow newly come out of the country, he knows nothing of what's the relish, here, of the town.

Bayes. If I writ, sir, to please the country, I should have follow'd the old plain way; but I write for some persons of quality, and peculiar friends of mine, that understand what flame and power in writing is; and they do me the right, sir, to approve of what I do.

Johns. Ay, ay, they will clap, I warrant you; never fear it.

Bayes. I'm sure the design's good; that cannot be denied. And then, for language, egad, I defy 'em all, in nature, to mend it. Besides, sir, I have printed above a hundred sheets of paper to insinuate the plot into the boxes;[4] and, withal, have appointed two or three dozen of my friends to be ready in the pit, who, I'm sure, will clap, and so the rest, you know, must follow; and then, pray, sir, what becomes of your suppose? Ha, ha, ha!

Johns. Nay, if the business be so well laid, it cannot miss.

Bayes. I think so, sir; and therefore would choose this to be the prologue. For, if I could engage 'em to clap, before they see the play, you know it would be so much the better; because then they were engag'd; for let a man write ever so well, there are, now-a-days, a sort of persons they call critics, that, egad, have no more wit in them than so many hobby-horses; but they'll laugh at you, sir, and find fault, and censure things that, egad, I'm sure, they are not able to do themselves. A sort of envious persons that emulate the glories of persons of parts, and think to build their fame by calumniating of persons[5] that, egad, to my knowledge, of all persons in the world, are, in nature, the persons that do as much despise all that as—a— In fine, I'll say no more of 'em.

Johns. Nay, you have said enough of 'em, in all conscience; I'm sure more than they'll e'er be able to answer.

Bayes. Why, I'll tell you, sir, sincerely and bonâ fide, were it not for the sake of some ingenious persons and choice female spirits, that have a value for me, I would see 'em all hang'd, egad, before I would e'er more set pen to paper, but let 'em live in ignorance like ingrates.

Johns. Ay, marry! that were a way to be reveng'd of 'em indeed; and, if I were in your place, now, I would do so.

Bayes. No, sir; there are certain ties upon me that I cannot be disengag'd from;[6] otherwise, I would. But pray, sir, how do you like my hangman?

Smith. By my troth, sir, I should like him very well.

Bayes. By how do you like it, sir? (for, I see, you can judge) would you have it for a prologue, or the epilogue?

Johns. Faith, sir, 'tis so good, let it e'en serve for both.

Bayes. No, no; that won't do. Besides, I have made another.

Johns. What other, sir?

Bayes. Why, sir, my other is Thunder and Lightning.

Johns. That's greater; I'd rather stick to that.

Bayes. Do you think so? I'll tell you then; tho' there have been many witty prologues written of late, yet, I think, you'll say this is a non pareillo: I'm sure nobody has hit upon it yet. For here, sir, I make my prologue to be a dialogue; and as, in my first, you see, I strive to oblige the auditors by civility, by good nature, good language, and all that; so, in this, by the other way, in terrorem, I choose for the persons Thunder and Lightning. Do you apprehend the conceit?

Johns. Phoo, phoo! then you have it cock-sure. They'll be hang'd before they'll dare affront an author that has 'em at that lock.

Bayes. I have made, too, one of the most delicate dainty similes in the whole world, egad, if I knew but how to apply it.

Smith. Let's hear it, I pray you.

Bayes. 'Tis an allusion to love.

[7]"So boar and sow, when any storm is nigh,

Snuff up, and smell it gath'ring in the sky;

Boar beckons sow to trot in chestnut-groves,

And there consummate their unfinish'd loves:

Pensive in mud they wallow all alone,

And snore and gruntle to each other's moan."

How do you like it now, ha?

Johns. Faith, 'tis extraordinary fine; and very applicable to Thunder and Lightning, methinks, because it speaks of a storm.

Bayes. Egad, and so it does, now I think on't: Mr. Johnson, I thank you; and I'll put it in profecto. Come out, Thunder and Lightning.

Enter Thunder and Lightning.

Thun. I am the bold Thunder.

Bayes. Mr. Cartwright, prithee speak that a little louder, and with a hoarse voice. I am the bold Thunder: pshaw! speak it me in a voice that thunders it out indeed: I am the bold Thunder.

Thun. I am the bold Thunder.[8]

Light. The brisk Lightning, I.

Bayes. Nay, you must be quick and nimble.

The brisk Lightning, I. That's my meaning.

Thun. I am the bravest Hector of the sky.

Light. And I fair Helen, that made Hector die.

Thun. I strike men down.

Light. I fire the town.

Thun. Let critics take heed how they grumble,

For then begin I for to rumble.

Light. Let the ladies allow us their graces,

Or I'll blast all the paint on their faces,

And dry up their petre to soot.

Thun. Let the critics look to't.

Light. Let the ladies look to't.[9]

Thun. For Thunder will do't.

Light. For Lightning will shoot.

Thun. I'll give you dash for dash.

Light. I'll give you flash for flash.

Gallants, I'll singe your feather.

Thun. I'll thunder you together.

Both. Look to't, look to't; we'll do't, we'll do't. Look to't,

we'll do't. [Twice or thrice repeated.

[Exeunt ambo.

Bayes. There's no more. 'Tis but a flash of a prologue: a droll.

Smith. Yes, 'tis short indeed; but very terrible.

Bayes. Ay, when the simile's in, it will do to a miracle, egad.
Come, come, begin the play.

Enter First Player.

1st Play. Sir, Mr. Ivory is not come yet; but he'll be here presently, he's but two doors off.[10]

Bayes. Come then, gentlemen, let's go out and take a pipe of tobacco. [Exeunt.