Plag. Why there's that staring Irish Baronet blundering out such fulsome Praise upon the New Play as is enough to make a sensible Man sick—I did but offer an Objection or two and my Lady Critick and the whole Knot opened upon me like a Pack of Hounds—I was forced to quit the Room.
Cank. I am amazed at my Lady Critick's liking it but I will soon convince her of her Error. But dear Plagiary, was there no Opportunity, nor no Attempt to hinder its Success?
Plag. Not after it begun; before indeed, there was as promising a Spirit in the Pit as ever made an Author's Heart ache. They whistled, hollowed and catcalled and interrupted the Prologue for above ten Minutes.
Cank. Ay! That looked charming!
Plag. O delightful!—I would not have given Sixpence to have secured its Destruction—everybody around me concluded it a gone Play.
Grub. And so the[y] did about me I assure you.
Plag. If they had been possessed with the Spirit of Zoilus, they could not have behaved better before the Prologue was spoke; but the Instant the Curtain was drawn up, their Clamour changed to a fixed Attention, and their Prejudice to burst of Applause which made the Ring.
Cank. What, no hissing at all?
Plag. No, Sir!
Cank. Nor Catcalling?