Oliv. And never was author of anything but his news; but that is still all his own.
Nov. Madam, pray—
Oliv. An eternal babbler; and makes no more use of his ears, than a man that sits at a play by his mistress, or in Fop-corner. He's, in fine, a base detracting fellow, and is my aversion.—But who else, prithee Mr. Novel, was there with you? Nay, you shan't stir.
Nov. I beg your pardon, madam; I cannot stay in any place where I'm not allowed a little Christian liberty of railing.
Oliv. Nay, prithee Mr. Novel, stay: and though you should rail at me, I would hear you with patience. Prithee, who else was there with you?
Nov. Your servant, madam.
Oliv. Nay, prithee tell us, Mr. Novel, prithee do.
Nov. We had nobody else.
Oliv. Nay, faith, I know you had. Come, my Lord Plausible was there too; who is, cousin, a—