QUIN. His inamorata, Mrs. Woffington, of this theatre.
CLIVE. Of course. But who else?
QUIN. Sir Charles Pomander. The critics, Snarl and Soaper, are invited, I believe.
CLIVE. Then I shall eat no dinner.
QUIN. Pooh! There is to be a haunch that will counterpoise in one hour a century of censure. Let them talk! the mouth will revenge the ears of Falstaff;—besides, Snarl is the only ill-natured one—Soaper praises people, don’t he?
CLIVE. Don’t be silly, Quin! Soaper’s praise is only a pin for his brother executioner to hang abuse on: by this means Snarl, who could not invent even ill-nature, is never at a loss. Snarl is his own weight in wormwood; but Soaper is—hush!—hold your tongue.
[Enter Snarl and Soaper L.D. Quin and Clive rise.]
(Clive, with engaging sweetness). Ah! Mr. Snarl! Mr. Soaper! we were talking of you.
SNARL. I am sorry for that, madam.