Peter. Never mind, sir, don't perplex yourself,—put in any thing.
Vapid. Put in any thing! why, 'tis the last line, and the epilogue must end with something striking, or it will be no trap for applause—no trap for applause, after all this fine writing!—Put in any thing!—what do you mean, sirrah?
Peter. Methinks this is a strange epilogue to a comedy—[Knock at the door.]—Perhaps this is my master—[Looks out.]—no, as I live, 'tis Mr Floriville and Miss Courtney! she mustn't on any account be seen by this gentleman.
Vapid. Well, who is it?—"The tyrant totters"—
Peter. Sir, it's a friend of my master's who has brought a lady with him—I'm sure you've too much gallantry to interrupt an amour; and, therefore, you'll be kind enough to get out of the way directly.
Vapid. Get out of the way! what the devil, in the middle of my composition?—"Die all, die nobly"—
Peter. Nay, sir, only step for a moment into this closet, and you shall be released,—now, pray, sir,—pray be prevailed on.
Vapid. Well, let me see—in this closet! why, here's china, zounds! would you put a live author in a china closet?
Peter. What can I do, sir? there is no way out but that door—get in here for an instant, and I'll show them into the library—now do, sir.
Vapid. Well, be brief then,—"Die all! die nobly!"—oh! oh! oh!