Mrs. S.—Sir, you are vastly obleeging, but where’s the chair?
Dr. Johnson.—Madam, you who have so often occasioned a want of seats to other people, will the more easily excuse the want of one yourself.
Mr. Shakespeare.—Marry come up! Wouldst not sit in my lap, Sal? ’Tis not so deep as a well nor so wide as a church door, but ’twill serve.
Mrs. S. (scandalized but dignified).—Sir, I am sensible of the honour, but fear my train would incommode the Immortal Bard.
Mr. Shakespeare.—Oh, Immortal Bard be——
Mr. Garrick (hastily).—I perceive, sir, a stir among the company. The gentleman who is taking the chair has notable eyebrows; he must be——
Mr. Shakespeare.—Master George Robey. I’ve heard of him and his eyebrows.
Mr. G.—No, no, ’tis Sir Arthur Pinero, an actor-dramatist like yourself, sir.
Mr. Shakespeare.—Beshrew me, but I would hear the chimes at midnight with him and drink a health unto his knighthood. (Sings.) “And let me the canakin clink, clink, and——”
The House (indignantly).—Sh-h-h!