Hum. Ay, ay, to be sure, they can do no less, if Clidiamira's really angry; but not so fast, not so fast, if you please.
Busk. Pray, sir, give me leave—Oh, Mr. Humber, is it you? Your humble servant.—I submit—I know you are a critic.
Hum. To be free, sir, you must know this way of blustering is a stage legerdemain; a trick upon the eyes and ears of the audience. Look you, sir, this is a time of licentiousness; and we must examine things, now we are setting up to strip you, to know whether what you say is good or not.
Busk. How, strip me!
Hum. Ay, strip you—for if it be not sense in your doublet, it is not in your long robe. High heels on your shoes, or the feathers on your beaver, cannot exalt you a tittle. No; you must know, good folks, this is all a cheat. Such stuff as this is only a tragedy of feathers—it is only lace and ribbon in distress; undress the actor, and the speech is spoiled.
All. Strip him—strip him! [They pull off his clothes.
Hum. Now speak, now speak.
Busk. Give me my truncheon at least; I got it by heart with a stick in my hand.
Many. Ha, ha, ha; let him have his truncheon—let him have his truncheon.
Busk. Nay—pray, gentlemen and ladies, let me come on the same board.—Nay—