Oliv. I've done; your pardon, Mr. Novel: pray proceed.
Nov. I say, the rogue, that he may be the only wit in company, will let nobody else talk, and—
Oliv. Ay, those fops who love to talk all themselves are of all things my aversion.
Nov. Then you'll let me speak, madam, sure. The rogue, I say, will force his jest upon you; and I hate a jest that's forced upon a man, as much as a glass.
Eliza. Why, I hope, sir, he does not expect a man of your temperance in jesting should do him reason?
Nov. What! interruption from this side too? I must then—[Offers to rise. Olivia holds him.
Oliv. No, sir.—You must know, cousin, that fop he means, though he talks only to be commended, will not give you leave to do't.
Nov. But, madam—
Oliv. He a wit! Hang him; he's only an adopter of straggling jests and fatherless lampoons; by the credit of which he eats at good tables, and so, like the barren beggar-woman, lives by borrowed children.
Nov. Madam—