Ennui. Has he not a share of vanity in his composition?
Nev. Oh yes—he fancies himself a great favourite with the women.
Ennui. Then I've an idea—I've got a thought, by which you may revenge yourself on Lady Waitfor't—in fact—give him the letter—he'll certainly believe 'tis meant for himself.
Nev. My dear friend, ten thousand thanks!—We'll flatter his vanity, by persuading him she is young and beautiful, and my life on't it does wonders;—but, hush, he comes.
Enter Vapid.
Nev. Vapid! I rejoice to see you,—'tis a long time since we met; give me leave to introduce you to a particular friend of mine—Mr Ennui—Mr Vapid.
Ennui. I've an idea—you do me honour—Mr Vapid, I shall be proud to be better acquainted with you—in fact—any thing of consequence stirring in the fashionable or political world?
Vapid. Some whispers about a new pantomime, sir,—nothing else.
Nev. And I'm afraid, in the present scarcity of good writers, we have little else to expect.—Pray, Vapid, how is the present dearth of genius to be accounted for; particularly dramatic genius?
Vapid. Why, as to dramatic genius, sir, the fact is this—to give a true picture of life, a man should enter into all its scenes,—should follow nature, sir—but modern authors plunder from one another—the mere shades of shadows.—Now, sir, for my part, I dive into the world—I search the heart of man;—'tis true I'm called a rake—but, upon my soul, I only game, drink, and intrigue, that I may be better able to dramatize each particular scene.