Nev. No,—Lady Waitfor't's arts are numberless—she is so perfect a hypocrite, that I even doubt her confessing her real sentiments to her minion Willoughby; and when she does a bad action, she ever pretends 'tis from a good motive.
Enter Vapid.
Vapid. Gad, I forgot—you'll recollect the epilogue, Neville.
Nev. Yes,—I'll write to my cousin to-day.
Vapid. But, not a word of the love affair to him—any where else indeed it might do one a service—but never tell an intrigue to a dramatic author.
Vapid. Because it may furnish a scene for a comedy—I do it myself.—Indeed, I think the best part of an intrigue is the hopes of incident, or stage effect—however, I can't stay.
Nev. Nay, we'll walk with you—I, in pursuit of my brother—you, of your mistress.
Vapid. Ay, Neville, there it is—now, do take my advice, and write a play—if any incident happens, remember, it is better to have written a damned play, than no play at all—it snatches a man from obscurity—and being particular, as this world goes, is a very great thing.
Nev. But I confess I have no desire to get into print.