PROF. PHIL. And for what, then, do you count philosophy? I think you are all three very bold fellows to dare to speak before me with this arrogance, and impudently to give the name of science to things which are not even to be honoured with the name of art, but which can only be classed with the trades of prize-fighter, street-singer, and mountebank.
FEN. MAS. Get out, you dog of a philosopher.
MUS. MAS. Get along with you, you beggarly pedant.
DAN. MAS. Begone, you empty-headed college scout.
PROF. PHIL. How, scoundrels that you are!
(The PHILOSOPHER rushes upon them, and they all three belabour him.)
MR. JOUR. Mr. Philosopher.
PROF. PHIL. Infamous villains!
MR. JOUR. Mr. Philosopher!
FEN. MAS. Plague take the animal!