Lamp. Yes, sir; and sir, I have just now engaged a new actor, Mr. Rover. Such an actor!
Rover. Eh! What! you've engaged that—what's his name, Rover? If such is your best actor, you shan't have my permission. My dear madam, the worst fellow in the world. Get along out of town, or I'll have all of you, man, woman, child, stick, rag, and fiddlestick, clapt into the whirligig.
Lady Am. Good man, abide not here.
Rover. Eh! What, my friend? Now, indeed, if this new actor you brag of, this crack of your company, was any thing like a gentleman—
Lamp. [Stares.] It isn't!
Rover. It is. My good friend, if I was really the unfortunate poor strolling dog you thought me, I should tread your four boards, and crow the cock of your barn-door fowl; but as fate has ordained that I'm a gentleman, and son to Sir,—Sir,—what the devil's my father's name? [Aside.] you must be content to murder Shakspeare without making me an accomplice.
Lamp. But, my most gentle sir, I, and my treasurer, Trap, have trumpeted your fame ten miles round the country:—the bills are posted, the stage built, the candles booked, fiddles engaged; all on the tip-top of expectation. We should have to-morrow night an overflow, ay, thirty pounds. Dear, worthy sir, you wou'dn't go to ruin a whole community and their families that now depend only on the exertion of your brilliant talents.
Rover. Eh! I never was uniform but in one maxim, that is, though I do little good, to hurt nobody but myself.
Lady Am. Since thou hast promised, much as I prize my adherence to those customs in which I was brought up, thou shalt not sully thy honour by a breach of thy word. Play, if it can bring good to these people.
Rover. Shall I?