Sir Trem. The Fable!
Clink. To you I answer,—
1st Play. The characters!
Clink. To you I answer—
Sir Trem. The diction!
Clink. And to you—Ah, hold, hold,—I'm butcher'd, I'm massacred. For mercy's sake! murder, murder! ah!
[faints.
Enter Fossile peeping at the door.
Foss. My house turn'd to a stage! and my bride playing her part too! What will become of me? but I'll know the bottom of all this. [aside.] I am surprized to see so many patients here so early. What is your distemper, Sir?
1st Play. The cholic, Sir, by a surfeit of green tea and damn'd verses.
Foss. Your pulse is very high, madam. [To Townley.] You sympathize, I perceive, for yours is somewhat feverish. [To Plotwell.] But I believe I shall be able to put off the fit for this time. And as for you, niece, you have got the poetical itch, and are possess'd with nine devils, your nine muses; and thus I commit them and their works to the flames. [Takes up a heap of papers and flings them into the fire.]