Smith. Why, there's no need of brain for this: 'tis but scanning the labours on the finger; but where's the sense of it?
Johns. Oh! for that he desires to be excus'd: he is too proud a man to creep servilely after sense, I assure you.[48] But pray, Mr. Bayes, why is this scene all in verse? Bayes. Oh, sir, the subject is too great for prose.
Smith. Well said, i'faith; I'll give thee a pot of ale for that answer; 'tis well worth it.
Bayes. Come, with all my heart.
I'll make that god subscribe himself a devil;
That single line, egad, is worth all that my brother poets ever writ.
Let down the curtain. [Exeunt.