Plot. I should be proud, madam, to be a real father to any of your productions.
Clink. Mighty just. Ha, ha, ha. You know, Mr. Plotwell, that both a parrot and a player can utter human sounds, but we allow neither of them to be a judge of wit. Yet some of those people have had the assurance to deny almost all my performances the privilege of being acted. Ah! what a Goût de travers rules the understanding of the illiterate!
Plot. There are [some, madam, that nauseate the smell of a rose].
[Whenever Plotwell and Townley endeavour to talk, she interrupts them.
Clink. If this piece be not rais'd to the sublime, let me henceforth be stigmatiz'd as a reptile in the dust of mediocrity. I am persuaded, Sir, your adopted child will do you no dishonour.
Town. Pray, madam, what is the subject?
Clink. Oh! beyond every thing. So adapted for tragical machines! so proper to excite the passions! not in the least encumber'd with episodes! the vraysemblance and the miraculous are linkt together with such propriety.
Town. But the subject, madam?
Clink. The universal Deluge, I chose that of Deucalion and Pyrrha, because neither our stage nor actors are hallow'd enough for sacred story.
Plot. But, madam——
[To Townley.