Bayes. Ha, there he has hit it up to the hilts, egad! How do you like it now, gentlemen? is not this pure wit?
Smith. 'Tis snip-snap, sir, as you say; but methinks not pleasant, nor to the purpose; for the play does not go on.
Bayes. Play does not go on! I don't know what you mean: why, is not this part of the play?
Smith. Yes; but the plot stands still.
Bayes. Plot stand still! why, what a devil is the plot good for, but to bring in fine things?
Smith. Oh, I did not know that before.
Bayes. No, I think you did not, nor many things more, that I am master of. Now, sir, egad, this is the bane of all us writers; let us soar but never so little above the common pitch, egad, all's spoil'd, for the vulgar never understand it; they can never conceive you, sir, the excellency of these things.
Johns. 'Tis a sad fate, I must confess; but you write on still for all that!
Bayes. Write on? Ay, egad, I warrant you. 'Tis not their talk shall stop me; if they catch me at that lock, I'll give them leave to hang me. As long as I know my things are good, what care I what they say? What, are they gone without singing my last new song? 'sbud would it were in their bellies. I'll tell you, Mr. Johnson, if I have any skill in these matters, I vow to gad this song is peremptorily the very best that ever yet was written: you must know it was made by Tom Thimble's first wife after she was dead.