(SNARLEWIT steps over the Benches and sits down between RATTLE and SMART)
Snarle. Mr. Smart, your Servant. How do you do, Mr. Rattle? What, you are come to hear the Pit speak the Prologue, I suppose. Ha! Macklin's fine Conceit.
Smart. Ay, we are so; do you know anything of it?
Snarle. Psha! psha! a parcel of Stuff! a ridiculous Conceit of the Blockhead's in imitation of a French writer who stole it from one of the Greek Comic Poets.
Smart. But in what manner is it to be done? Is it in Prose or in Verse, or upon the Stage, or really in the Pit?
Snarle. Lord, Sir, the Blockhead brings the Pit upon the Stage; and the supposed Conversation there between the Play and the Farce is to be the Prologue,—a French Conceit calculated merely to raise Curiosity and fill the House, that's all.
Smart. Ay, and enough too, if it answers his purpose.
Irish. But pray, Sir, with humble Submission, if he brings the Pit up on the Stage, how shall we be able to see the Farce unless we go up into the Gallery?
Omnes. Ha! ha! ha!
Rattle. Very well observed, Sir.