SCENE III.
Enter Haxter.
Hax. Sir!
Tim. Surly sir, your design?
Hax. To ruin your design, illicentiate playwright. Down with your bills, sir.
Tim. Your bill cannot do it, sir.
Hax. But my commission shall, sir. Can you read, sir?
Tim. Yes, sir, and write too, else were I not fit for this employment.
[He reads the paper.
Tril. With what a scurvy, screwed look the myrmidon eyes him! He will surely bastinado our comedian out of his laureate periwig. Hold him tug, poet, or thou runs thy poetical pinnace on a desperate shelf!