Poet. Madam, not so; still you have one friend left.
Q. C. S. Why, what art thou?
Poet. Madam, I am a poet.
Q. C. S. Whoe'er thou art, if thou'rt a friend to misery, Know Common Sense disclaims thee.
Poet. I have been damn'd Because I was your foe, and yet I still Courted your friendship with my utmost art.
Q. C. S. Fool! thou wert damn'd because thou didst pretend
Thyself my friend; for hadst thou boldly dared,
Like Hurlothrumbo, to deny me quite,
Or, like an opera or pantomime,
Profess'd the cause of Ignorance in publick,
Thou might'st have met with thy desired success;
But men can't bear even a pretence to me.
Poet. Then take a ticket for my benefit night.
Q. C. S. I will do more—for Common Sense will stay Quite from your house, so may you not be damn'd.
Poet. Ha! say'st thou? By my soul, a better play
Ne'er came upon a stage; but, since you dare
Contemn me thus, I'll dedicate my play
To Ignorance, and call her Common Sense:
Yes, I will dress her in your pomp, and swear
That Ignorance knows more than all the world. [Exit.
Enter FIREBRAND.