Mar. your word neither mends nor mars it, that's one Comfort. Mr. Powell, will you walk off, or be carry'd off?
Mr. Pow. I'll make use of my Legs, if you please, Madam. Your most humble Servant.
Mar. Mr. Powell, yours; I give you ten thousand thanks for your trouble. I hope, Mr. Powell, you are convinc'd this Play won't fail.
Mr. Pow. O Lord! Madam, impossible! (Exit.
Mar. Well, sure by this Play, the Town will perceive what a woman can do. I must own, my Lord, it stomachs me sometimes, to hear young Fops cry, there's nothing like Mr. Such-a-one's Plays, and Mr. Such-a-ones Plays.
L. Whiff. But, Madam, I fear our excellent Entertainment's over; I think all your Actors are kill'd.
Mar. True, my Lord, they are most of 'em dispatch'd. But now, my Lord, comes one of my Surprizes; I make an end of my Play in the World in the Moon.
L. Whiff. In the World in the Moon!
Mr. Prais. Prodigious!
Mar. Scene-Men: Where the Devil are these Blockheads? Scene-Men.