CRABTREE. Lady Sneerwell, I kiss your hand. Mrs. Candour I don't believe you are acquainted with my Nephew Sir Benjamin Backbite—Egad, Ma'am, He has a pretty wit—and is a pretty Poet too isn't He Lady Sneerwell?
SIR BENJAMIN. O fie, Uncle!
CRABTREE. Nay egad it's true—I back him at a Rebus or a Charade against the best Rhymer in the Kingdom—has your Ladyship heard the Epigram he wrote last week on Lady Frizzle's Feather catching Fire—Do Benjamin repeat it—or the Charade you made last Night extempore at Mrs. Drowzie's conversazione—Come now your first is the Name of a Fish, your second a great naval commander—and
SIR BENJAMIN. Dear Uncle—now—prithee——
CRABTREE. Efaith, Ma'am—'twould surprise you to hear how ready he is at all these Things.
LADY SNEERWELL. I wonder Sir Benjamin you never publish anything.
SIR BENJAMIN. To say truth, Ma'am, 'tis very vulgar to Print and as my little Productions are mostly Satires and Lampoons I find they circulate more by giving copies in confidence to the Friends of the Parties—however I have some love-Elegies, which, when favoured with this lady's smile I mean to give to the Public.
[Pointing to MARIA.]
CRABTREE. 'Fore Heaven, ma'am, they'll immortalize you—you'll be handed down to Posterity, like Petrarch's Laura, or Waller's Sacharissa.
SIR BENJAMIN. Yes Madam I think you will like them—when you shall see in a beautiful Quarto Page how a neat rivulet of Text shall meander thro' a meadow of margin—'fore Gad, they will be the most elegant Things of their kind—