Nev. A good excuse for profligacy.—But tell me, Vapid, have you got any new characters since you came to Bath?
Vapid. 'Faith, only two—and those not very new either.
Ennui. In fact—may we ask what they are?
Vapid. If you don't write.
Nev. No, we certainly do not.
Vapid. Then I'll tell you:—The first is a charitable divine, who, in the weighty consideration how he shall best lavish his generosity, never bestows it at all:—and the other is a cautious apothecary, who, in determining which of two medicines is best for his patient, lets him die for want of assistance.—You understand me, I think, this last will do something, eh?
Ennui. I've an idea—the apothecary would cut a good figure in a comedy.
Vapid. A comedy! pshaw! I mean him for a tragedy.
Ennui. In fact—I don't comprehend, nor, possibly, the town.
Vapid. I know it—that's the very thing—hark ye, I've found out a secret—what every body understands, nobody approves; and people always applaud most where they least comprehend.—There is a refinement, sir, in appearing to understand things incomprehensible—else whence arises the pleasure at an opera, a private play, or a speech in parliament? why, 'tis the mystery in all these things—'tis the desire to find out what nobody else can—to be thought wiser than others—therefore—you take me—the apothecary is the hero of my tragedy.