Plag. I am afraid so.
Cank. Why then your Tragedy cannot come out this year——
Plag. No Sir, nor your Comedy.
Grub. Nor my Mask.
Cank. Isn't it monstrous that the Publick must be deprived of such an excellent performance as your Mask is, which is preferable to anything Milton ever wrote for such a wretched flimsy piece of Stuff?
Grub. Upon my word, Sir, I think the Publick is much worse used in respect of your Comedy, which has the Art and Character of Johnson, the Ease and Elegance of Etheridge, the Wit of Congreve, and the happy ridiculum of Moliere; and is indisputably the best that has been written in our Language.
Plag. Was there ever such Injustice shewn in a Theatre as the setting aside my Tragedy which has the Approbation of all the Judges in England?
Cank. It is severe Treatment no Doubt on't for your Piece stands in the first Class of Tragedy; it is written according to the strictest French Rules, and for the true Sublime as far beyond Shakespear as Banks is beneath him. But what signifies the Excellence of a Piece? Neither your Tragedy, my Comedy, nor your Mask can come on. The Stage is quite monopolized for this Year if this Thing, I can't call it a Play, is suffered to run.
Plag. Ay, and what is worse, if some means is not found out to check it, ten to one but we shall be plagued with another next year.
Grub. Well, what's to be done?