Mar. I'll never set my Foot agen upon this confounded Stage. My Opera shall be first, and my Catiline next; which I'd have these to know, shall absolutely break 'em. They may shut up their Doors; strole or starve, or do what ever the Devil puts in their heads; no more of Marsilias Works, I assure 'em. Come, my Lord.
Mar. By my Soul, I will; your damn'd ill Humour began my Misfortunes. Farewel, Momus; farewel, Ideots: Hoarse be your Voices, rotten your Lungs, want of Wit and Humour continue upon your damn'd Poets, and Poverty consume you all. (Exit.
Prais. What, ner'e a word to me! or did she put me among the Ideots? Sir, the Lady's gone.
Awd. And you may go after; there's something to help you forward. (kicks him.
Prais. I intend, Sir, I intend it. (Exit.
Enter Mr. Powell, Mrs. Knight, Mrs. Cross, &c. Laughing
Awd. So, what's the news now?
Mr. Pow. Oh, my Sides! my Sides! the wrathful Lady has run over a Chair, shatter'd the Glasses to pieces: The Chair-Men, to save it, fell pell-mell in with her. She has lost part of her Tail, broke her Fan, tore her Ruffles, and pull'd off half my Lord Whiffle's Wigg, with trying to rise by it: So they are, with a Shagreen Air, and tatter'd Dress, gone into the Coach: Mr. Praisall thrust in after 'em, with the bundle of Fragments, his Care had pick'd up from under the Fellows Feet. Come, to make some Atonement, Entertain this Gentleman with the Dance you are practising for the next new Play.
A DANCE.