Lady. It only waits the signature.—Now, my lord.
Flor. Look ye, uncle—she's the cause of all this mischief, and if you are not lost——
Lord. Out of my way!—O'd—noise and nonsense!—don't fancy yourselves in the House of Commons! we're not speaking twenty at a time. Here! give me the pen—I'll sign directly; and now—
[As he is going to sign, Vapid breaks the China in the Closet, and rushes out, with the Epilogue in his Hand.
Vapid. "Die all! die nobly! die like demi-gods!"—Huzza, huzza! 'tis done! 'tis past! 'tis perfect.
Flor. Huzza!—the poet at last; "Stop him who can!"
Lady. Confusion!—tell me, sir, immediately, what do you mean by this new insult?
Vapid. "Die all! die nobly! die like demi-gods!"—oh, it's glorious!—Ah, old Scratch, are you there?—Joy, joy! give me joy!—I've done your business! the work's past!—the labour's o'er, my boy!—"think of that, Master Brook—think of that!"
Lady. My lord, I am vilely treated.—I desire you'll insist on an explanation.
Flor. He can't speak, madam.