SCAENA I.

NOw, Sir, because I'l do nothing here that ever was done before—

A very notable design, for a Play, indeed.

Instead of beginning with a Scene that discovers something of the Plot, I begin this with a whisper.

That's very new.

Come, take your seats. Begin, Sirs.

Sir, by your habit, I should ghess you to be the Gen­tleman-Usher of this sumptuous place.

And, by your gait and fashion, I should almost suspect you rule the healths of both our noble Kings, under the noti­on of Physician.

You hit my Function right.

And you, mine.

Then let's imbrace.

Come then.

Come.

Pray, Sir, who are those two so very civil persons?

Why, Sir, the Gentleman-Usher, and Physicians of the two Kings of Brentford.

But how comes it to pass, then, that they know one another no better?

Phoo! that's for the better carrying on of the In­trigue.

Very well.

Sir, to conclude,

What, before he begins?

No, Sir; you must know they had been talking of this a pretty while without.

Where? in the Tyring-room?

Why ay, Sir. He's so dull! Come, speak again.

Sir, to conclude, the place you fill, has more than am­ply exacted the Talents of a wary Pilot, and all these threat­ning storms which, like impregnant Clouds, do hover o'er our heads, (when they once are grasp'd but by the eye of reason) melt into fruitful showers of blessings on the people.

Pray mark that Allegory. Is not that good?

Yes; that grasping of a storm with the eye is ad­mirable.

But yet some rumours great are stirring; and if Lorenzo should prove false, (as none but the great Gods can tell) you then perhaps would find, that—

Now they whisper.

Alone, do you say?

No; attended with the noble—

Who, he in gray?

Yes; and at the head of—

Pray mark.

Thirdly, and lastly, both he, and they—

There they both whisper.

Now, Gentlemen, pray tell me true, and without flattery, is not this a very odd beginning of a Play?

In troth, I think it is, Sir. But why two Kings of the same place?

Why? because it's new; and that's it I aim at. I despise your Iohnson, and Beaumont, that borrow'd all they writ from Nature: I am for fetching it purely out of my own fancie, I.

But what think you of Sir Iohn Suckling, Sir?

By gad, I am a better Poet than he.

Well, Sir; but pray why all this whispering?

Why, Sir, (besides that it is new, as I told you be­fore) because they are suppos'd to be Polititians; and matters of State ought not to be divulg'd.

But then, Sir, why—

Sir, if you'l but respite your curiosity till the end of the fifth Act, you'l find it a piece of patience not ill recom­penc'd.

How dost thou like this, Frank? Is it not just as I told thee?

Why, I did never, before this, see any thing in Nature; and all that, (as Mr. Bayes says) so foolish, but I could give some ghess at what mov'd the Fop to do it; but this, I confess, does go beyond my reach.

Why, 'tis all alike: Mr. Wintershull has inform'd me of this Play before. And I'l tell thee, Frank, thou shalt not see one Scene here, that either properly ought to come in, or is like any thing thou canst imagine has ever been the practice of the World. And then, when he comes to what he calls good language, it is, as I told thee, very fantastical, most abo­minably dull, and not one word to the purpose.

It does surprise me, I am sure, very much.

I, but it won't do so long: by that time thou hast seen a Play or two, that I'l shew thee, thou wilt be pretty well acquainted with this new kind of Foppery.

SCAENA II.

THese are the two Kings of Brentford; take notice of their stile: 'twas never yet upon the Stage; but, if you like it, I could make a shift, perhaps, to shew you a whole Play, written all just so.

Did you observe their whisper, brother King?

This is a very Majestick Scene indeed.

Ay, 'tis a crust, a lasting crust for your Rogue Critiques, I gad: I would fain see the proudest of 'em all but dare to nibble at this; I gad, if they do, this shall rub their gums for 'em, I promise you. It was I, you must know, writ the Play I told you of, in this very Stile: and shall I tell you a very good jest? I gad, the Players would not act it: ha, ha, ha.

That's impossible.

I gad, they would not, Sir: ha, ha, ha. They re­fus'd it, I gad, the silly Rogues: ha, ha, ha.

Fie, that was rude.

Rude! I gad, they are the rudest, uncivilest persons, and all that, in the whole world: I gad, there's no living with 'em. I have written, Mr. Iohnson, I do verily believe, a whole cart-load of things, every whit as good as this, and yet, I vow to gad, these insolent Raskals have turn'd 'em all back upon my hands again.

Strange fellows indeed.

But pray, Mr. Bayes, how came these two Kings to know of this whisper? for, as I remember, they were not pre­sent at it.

No, but that's the Actors fault, and not mine; for the Kings should (a pox take 'em) have pop'd both their heads in at the door, just as the other went off.

That, indeed, would ha' done it.

Done it! Ay, I gad, these fellows are able to spoil the best things in Christendom. I'l tell you, Mr. Iohnson, I vow to gad, I have been so highly disoblig'd, by the peremp­toriness of these fellows, that I am resolv'd, hereafter, to bend all my thoughts for the service of the Nursery, and mump your proud Players, I gad.

SCAENA III.

Does not that, now, surprise you, to fall asleep just in the nick? His spirits exhale with the heat of his passion, and all that, and swop falls asleep, as you see. Now, here, she must make a simile.

Where's the necessity of that, Mr. Bayes?

Because she's surpris'd. That's a general Rule: you must ever make a simile when you are surpris'd; 'tis the new way of writing.

I am afraid, Gentlemen, this Scene has made you sad; for I must confess, when I writ it, I wept my self.

No, truly, Sir, my spirits are almost exhal'd too, and I am likelier to fall asleep.

It is resolv'd.

Mr. Bayes, may one be so bold as to ask you a questi­on, now, and you not be angry?

O Lord, Sir, you may ask me what you please. I vow to gad, you do me a great deal of honour: you do not know me, if you say that, Sir.

Then, pray, Sir, what is it that this Prince here has re­solv'd in his sleep?

Why, I must confess, that question is well enough ask'd, for one that is not acquainted with this new way of writing. But you must know, Sir, that, to out-do all my fel­low-Writers, whereas they keep their Intrigo secret till the very last Scene before the Dance; I now, Sir, do you mark me — a —

Begin the Play, and end it, without ever opening the Plot at all?

I do so, that's the very plain troth on't: ha, ha, ha; I do, I gad. If they cannot find it out themselves, e'en let 'em alone for Bayes, I warrant you. But here, now, is a Scene of business: pray observe it; for I dare say you'l think it no un­wise discourse this, nor ill argu'd. To tell you true, 'tis a De­bate I over-heard once betwixt two grand, sober, governing persons.

SCAENA IV.

COme, Sir; let's state the matter of fact, and lay our heads together.

Right: lay our heads together. I love to be merry sometimes; but when a knotty point comes, I lay my head close to it, with a pipe of Tobacco in my mouth, and then I whew it away, i'faith.

I do just so, I gad, always.

The grand question is, whether they heard us whi­sper? which I divide thus: into when they heard, what they heard, and whether they heard or no.

Most admirably divided, I swear.

As to the when; you say just now: so that is answer'd. Then, for what; why, what answers it self: for what could they hear, but what we talk'd of? So that, naturally, and of necessity, we come to the last question, Videlicet, whether they heard or no?

This is a very wise Scene, Mr. Bayes.

Yes; you have it right: they are both Polititians. I writ this Scene for a pattern, to shew the world how men should talk of business.

You have done it exceeding well, indeed.

Yes, I think this will do.

Well, if they heard us whisper, they'l turn us out, and no bodie else will take us.

No bodie else will take us.

Not for Polititians, I dare answer for it.

There's now an odd surprise; the whole State's turn'd quite topsi-turvy, without any puther or stir in the whole world, I gad.

A very silent change of a Government, truly, as e­ver I heard of.

It is so. And yet you shall see me bring 'em in again, by and by, in as odd a way every jot.

Hey ho, hey ho: what a change is here! Hey day, hey day! I know not what to do, nor what to say.

But, pray, Sir, how came they to depose the Kings so easily?

Why, Sir, you must know, they long had a design to do it before; but never could put it in practice till now: and, to tell you true, that's one reason why I made 'em whi­sper so at first.

O, very well: now I'm fully satisfi'd.

And then, to shew you, Sir, it was not done so very easily neither; in this next Scene you shall see some fighting.

O, ho: so then you make the struggle to be after the business is done?

Aye.

O, I conceive you: that is very natural.

SCAENA V.

STand. Who goes there?

A friend.

What friend?

A friend to the House.

Fall on.

Hold, hold.

Now here's an odd surprise: all these dead men you shall see rise up presently, at a certain Note that I have made, in Effaut flat, and fall a Dancing. Do you hear, dead men? remember your Note in Effaut flat. Play on.

Now, now, now.

O Lord, O Lord! Out, out, out! Did ever men spoil a good thing so? no fi­gure, no ear, no time, no thing? you dance worse than the Angels in Harry the Eight, or the fat Spirits in The Tempest, I gad.

Why, Sir, 'tis impossible to do any thing in time, to this Tune.

O Lord, O Lord! impossible? why, Gentlemen, if there be any faith in a person that's a Christian, I sate up two whole nights in composing this Air, and apting it for the bu­siness: for, if you observe, there are two several Designs in this Tune; it begins swift, and ends slow. You talk of time, and time; you shall see me do't. Look you now. Here I am dead.

Now mark my Note in Effaut flat. Strike up Musick. Now.

Ah, gadsookers, I have broke my Nose.

By my troth, Mr. Bayes, this is a very unfortunate Note of yours, in Effaut flat.

A plague of this damn'd Stage, with your nails, and [Page 20] your tenter-hooks, that a man cannot come to teach you to Act, but he must break his nose, and his face, and the divel and all. Pray, Sir, can you help me to a wet piece of brown papyr?

No indeed, Sir; I don't usually carry any about me.

Sir, I'l go get you some within presently.

Go, go then; I'l follow you. Pray dance out the Dance, and I'l be with you in a moment. Remember you four that you dance like Horsemen.

A Devil! let's try this no more: play my Dance that Mr. Bayes found fault with.

What can this fool be doing all this while about his nose?

Pr'ythee let's go see.

SCAENA I.

NOw, Sir, this I do, because my fancie in this Play is to end every Act with a Dance.

Faith, that fancie is very good, but I should hardly have broke my nose for it, though.

That fancie, I suppose, is new too.

Sir, all my fancies are so. I tread upon no mans heels; but make my flight upon my own wings, I assure you. As, now, this next Scene some perhaps will say, It is not very ne­cessary to the Plot: I grant it; what then? I meant it so. [Page 21] But then it's as full of Drollery as ever it can hold: 'tis like an Orange stuck with Cloves, as for conceipt. Come, where are you? This Scene will make you die with laughing, if it be well acted: it is a Scene of sheer Wit, without any mixture in the world, I gad.

This, Sirs, might properly enough be call'd a prize of Wit; for you shall see 'em come in upon one another snip snap, hit for hit, as fast as can be. First one speaks, then presently t'other's upon him slap, with a Repartee; then he at him a­gain, dash with a new conceipt: and so eternally, eternally, I gad, till they go quite off the Stage.

What a plague, does this Fop mean by his snip snap, hit for hit, and dash?

Mean? why, he never meant any thing in's life: what dost talk of meaning for?

Why don't you come in?

But pr'ythee, Tom Thimble, why wilt thou needs marry? If nine Taylors make but one man; and one woman cannot be satisfi'd with nine men: what work art thou cutting our here for thy self, trow we?

Good.

Why, an't please your Highness, if I can't make up all the work I cut out, I shan't want Journey-men to help me, I warrant you.

Good again.

I am afraid thy Journey-men, though, Tom, won't work by the day, but by the night.

Good still.

However, if my wife sits but cross-leg'd, as I do, there will be no great danger: not half so much as when I trusted you for your Coronation-suit.

Very good, i'faith.

Why, the times then liv'd upon trust; it was the [Page 22] fashion. You would not be out of time, at such a time as that, sure: A Taylor, you know, must never be out of fashion.

Right.

I'm sure, Sir, I made your cloath in the Court-fashion, for you never paid me yet.

There's a bob for the Court.

Why, Tom, thou art a sharp rogue when thou art an­gry, I see: thou pay'st me now, methinks.

I, Sir, in your own coyn: you give me nothing but words.

Admirable, before gad.

Well, Tom, I hope shortly I shall have another coyn for thee; for now the Wars come on, I shall grow to be a man of mettal.

O, you did not do that half enough.

Methinks he does it admirably.

I, pretty well; but he does not hit me in't: he does not top his part.

That's the way to be stamp'd your self, Sir. I shall see you come home, like an Angel for the Kings-evil, with a hole bor'd through you.

That's very good, i'faith: ha, ha, ha. Ha, there he has hit it up to the hilts, I gad. How do you like it now, Gentlemen? is not this pure Wit?

'Tis snip snap, Sir, as you say; but, methinks, not plea­sant, nor to the purpose, for the Play does not go on.

Play does not go on? I don't know what you mean: why, is not this part of the Play?

Yes, but the Plot stands still.

Plot stand still! why, what a Devil is the Plot good for, but to bring in fine things?

O, I did not know that before.

No, I think you did not: nor many things more, that I am Master of. Now, Sir, I gad, this is the bane of all us Writers: let us soar never so little above the common pitch, I gad, all's spoil'd; for the vulgar never understand us, they can never conceive you, Sir, the excellencie of these things.

'Tis a sad fate, I must confess: but you write on still?

Write on? I, I gad, I warrant you. 'Tis not their talk shall stop me: if they catch me at that lock, I'l give 'em leave to hang me. As long as I know my things to be good, what care I what they say? What, they are gone, and forgot the Song!

They have done very well, methinks, here's no need of one.

Alack, Sir, you know nothing: you must ever in­terlard your Plays with Songs, Ghosts and Idols, if you mean to — a —

Pit, Box and Gallery, Mr. Bayes.

I gad, Sir, and you have nick'd it. Hark you, Mr. Iohnson, you know I don't flatter, a gad, you have a great deal of Wit.

O Lord, Sir, you do me too much honour.

Nay, nay, come, come, Mr. Iohnson, Ifacks this must not be said, amongst us that have it. I know you have wit by the judgement you make of this Play; for that's the mea­sure I go by: my Play is my Touch-stone. When a man tells me such a one is a person of parts; is he so, say I? what do I do, but bring him presently to see this Play: If he likes it. I know what to think of him; if not, your most humble Servant, Sir, I'l no more of him upon my word, I thank you. I am Clara voyant, a gad. Now here we go on to our business.

SCAENA II.

Nay, pray, Sir, have a little patience: Godsookers you'l spoil all my Play. Why, Sir, 'tis impossible to answer every impertinent question you ask.

Perhaps you may find too, by and by, for all this, that she's not dead neither.

Marry, that's good news: I am glad of that with all my heart.

Now, here's the man brought in that is suppos'd to have kill'd her.

What shout Triumphant's that?

Shie maid, upon the River brink, near Twick'nam Town, the assassinate is tane.

Pish, there you are out; to all future end? No, no; to all future end; you must lay the accent upon end, or else you lose the conceipt.

Indeed the alteration of that accent does a great deal, Mr. Bayes.

O, all in all, Sir: they are these little things that mar, or set you off a Play.

I see you are very perfect in these matters.

I, Sir; I have been long enough at it to know some­thing.

To kill whom?

Mark how I make the horror of his guilt confound his intellects; for that's the design of this Scene.

I see, Sir, you have a several design for every Scene.

I; that's my way of writing: and so I can dispatch you, Sir, a whole Play, before another man, I gad, can make an end of his Plot. So, now enter Prince Pretty-man in a rage. Where the Devil is he? Why Pretty-man? why when, I say? O fie, fie, fie, fie; all's marr'd, I vow to gad, quite marr'd.

Phoo, pox! you are come too late, Sir: now you may go out again, if you please. I vow to gad Mr. — a — I would not give a button for my Play, now you have done this.

What, Sir?

What, Sir? 'Slife, Sir, you should have come out in choler, rous upon the Stage, just as the other went off. Must a man be eternally telling you of these things?

Sure this must be some very notable matter that he's so angry at.

I am not of your opinion.

Pish! come, let's hear your Part, Sir.

Well, Ned, what think you now?

A Devil, this is worst of all. Pray, Mr. Bayes, what's the meaning of this Scene?

O, cry you mercie, Sir: I purtest I had forgot to tell you. Why, Sir, you must know, that, long before the begin­ning of this Play, this Prince was taken by a Fisherman.

How, Sir, taken Prisoner?

Taken Prisoner! O Lord, what a question's there! did ever any man ask such a question? Taken Prisoner! Godsookers, he has put the Plot quite out of my head, with this damn'd question. What was I going to say?

Nay, the Lord knows: I cannot imagine.

Stay, let me see; taken: O 'tis true. Why, Sir, as I was going to say, his Highness here, the Prince, was taken in a Cradle by a Fisherman, and brought up as his Child.

Indeed?

Nay, pr'ythee hold thy peace. And so, Sir, this murder being committed by the River-side, the Fisherman, upon suspicion, was seiz'd; and thereupon the Prince grew angry.

So, so; now 'tis very plain.

But, Mr. Bayes, is not that some disparagement to a Prince, to pass for a Fishermans Son? Have a care of that, I pray.

No, no, no; not at all; for 'tis but for a while: I shall fetch him off again, presently, you shall see.

There's a blust'ring verse for you now.

Yes, Sir; but pray, why is he so mightily troubled to find he is not a Fishermans Son?

Phoo! that is not because he has a mind to be his Son, but for fear he should be thought to be nobodies Son at all.

I, that would trouble a man, indeed.

So, let me see. Enter Prince Volscius, going out of Town.

I thought he had been gone to Piccadillé.

Yes, he gave out so; but that was onely to cover his design.

What design?

Why, to head the Army, that lies conceal'd for him in Knights-bridge.

I see here is a great deal of Plot, Mr. Bayes.

Yes, now it begins to break; but we shall have a world of more business anon.

Held the honour of your Company! prettily exprest! Held the honour of your company! Godsookers, these fel­lows will never take notice of any thing.

I assure you, Sir, I admire it extreamly; I don't know what he does.

I, I, he's a little envious; but 'tis no great matter. Come.

But pray, Mr. Bayes, is not this a little difficult, that you were saying e'en now, to keep an Army thus conceal'd in Knights-bridge.

In Knights-bridge? stay.

No, not if the Inn-keepers be his friends.

His friends! Ay, Sir, his intimate acquaintance; or else, indeed, I grant it could not be.

Yes, faith, so it might be very easily.

Nay, if I do not make all things easie, I gad, I'l give you leave to hang me. Now you would think that he is go­ing out of Town; but you shall see how prettily I have con­triv'd to stop him presently.

By my troth, Sir, you have so amaz'd me, I know not what to think.

The Morning pictur'd in a Cloud! A, Gadsookers, what a conceipt is there!

Give you good Ev'n, Sir.

How! Prince Volscius in love? Ha, ha, ha.

Sure, Mr. Bayes, we have lost some jest here, that they laugh at so.

Why did you not observe? He first resolves to go out of Town, and then, as he is pulling on his Boots, falls in love. Ha, ha, ha.

O, I did not observe: that, indeed, is a very good jest.

Here, now, you shall see a combat betwixt Love and Honour. And ancient Author has made a whole Play on't; [Page 30] but I have dispatch'd it all in his Scene.

By my troth, Sir, this is as difficult a Combat as ever I saw, and as equal; for 'tis determin'd on neither side.

Ay, is't not, I gad, ha? For, to go off hip hop, hip hop, upon this occasion, is a thousand times better than any conclusion in the world, I gad. But, Sirs, you cannot make any judgement of this Play, because we are come but to the end of the second Act. Come, the Dance.

Well, Gentlemen, you'l see this Dance, if I am not mistaken, take very well upon the Stage, when they are perfect in their motions, and all that.

I don't know 'twill take, Sir; but I am sure you sweat hard for't.

Ay, Sir, it costs me more pains, and trouble, to do these things, than almost the things are worth.

By my troth, I think so, Sir.

Not for the things themselves, for I could write you, Sir, forty of 'em in a day; but, I gad, these Players are such dull persons, that, if a man be not by upon every point, and at every turn, I gad, they'l mistake you, Sir, and spoil all.

What, is the Funeral ready?

Yes, Sir.

And is the Lance fill'd with Wine?

Sir, 'tis just now a doing.

Stay then; I'l do it my self.

Come, let's go with him.

A match. But, Mr. Iohnson, I gad, I am not like o­ther persons; they care not what becomes of their things, so they can but get money for 'em: now, I gad, when I write, if it be not just as it should be, in every circumstance, to every particular, I gad, I am not able to endure it, I am not my self, I'm out of my wits, and all that, I'm the strangest person in the whole world. For what care I for my money? I gad, I write for Fame and Reputation.

SCAENA I.

GEntlemen, because I would not have any two things alike in this Play, the last Act beginning with a witty Scene of mirth, I make this to be­gin with a Funeral.

And is that all your reason for it, Mr. Bayes?

No, Sir; I have a precedent for it too. A person of Honour, and a Scholar, brought in his Funeral just so: and he was one (let me tell you) that knew as well what belong'd to a Funeral, as any man in England, I gad.

Nay, if that be so, you are safe.

I gad, but I have another device, a frolick, which I think yet better than all this; not for the Plot or Characters, (for, in my Heroick Plays, I make no difference, as to those mat­ters) but for another contrivance.

What is that, I pray?

Why, I have design'd a Conquest, that cannot possi­bly, I gad, be acted in less than a whole week: and I'l speak a bold word, it shall Drum, Trumpet, Shout and Battel, I gad, with any the most warlike Tragoedy we have, either ancient or modern.

I marry, Sir; there you say something.

And pray, Sir, how have you order'd this same frolick of yours?

Faith, Sir, by the Rule or Romance. For example: they divide their things into three, four, five, six, seven, eight, or as many Tomes as they please: now, I would very fain know, what should hinder me, from doing the same with my things, if I please.

Nay, if you should not be Master of your own works, 'tis very hard.

That is my sence. And therefore, Sir, whereas e­very one makes five Acts to one Play, what do me I, but make five Plays to one Plot: by which means the Auditors have e­very day a new thing.

Most admirably good, i'faith! and must certainly take, because it is not tedious.

I, Sir, I know that, there's the main point. And then, upon Saturday, to make a close of all, (for I ever begin upon a Monday) I make you, Sir, a sixth Play, that sums up the whole matter to 'em, and all that, for fear they should have forgot it.

That consideration, Mr. Bayes, indeed, I think, will be very necessary.

And when comes in your share, pray Sir?

The third week.

I vow, you'l get a world of money.

Why, faith, a man must live: and if you don't, thus, pitch upon some new device, I gad, you'l never do it, for this Age (take it o' my word) is somewhat hard to please. There is one prettie odd passage, in the last of these Plays, which may be executed to several ways, wherein I'ld have your opinion, Gentlemen.

Well, what is't?

Why, Sir, I make a Male person to be in Love with a Female.

Do you mean that, Mr. Bayes, for a new thing?

Yes, Sir, as I have order'd it. You shall hear. He having passionately lov'd her through my five whole Plays, finding at last that she consents to his love, just after that his Mother had appear'd to him like a Ghost, he kills himself. That's one way. The other is, that she coming at last to love him, with as violent a passion as he lov'd her, she kills her self. Now my question is, which of these two persons should suffer upon this occasion?

By my troth, it is a very hard case to decide.

The hardest in the world, I gad; and has puzzled this pate very much. What say you, Mr. Smith?

Why, truly, Mr. Bayes, if it might stand with your justice, I should now spare 'em both.

I gad, and I think —ha— why then, I'l make him hinder her from killing her self. Ay, it shall be so. Come, come, bring in the Funeral.

Lay it down there: no, here, Sir. So, now speak.

Is not that good language now? is not that elevate? It's my non ultra, I gad. You must know they were both in love with her.

With her? with whom?

Why, this is Lardella's Funeral.

Lardella! I, who is she?

Why, Sir, the Sister of Drawcansir. A Ladie that was drown'd at Sea, and had a wave for her winding-sheet.

Ay, I gad, but you will not have patience; honest Mr. —a— you will not have patience.

Pray, Mr. Bayes, who is that Drawcansir?

Why, Sir, a fierce Hero, that frights his Mistriss, snubs up Kings, baffles Armies, and does what he will, without re­gard to good manners, justice or numbers.

A very prettie Character.

But, Mr. Bayes, I thought your Heroes had ever been men of great humanity and justice.

Yes, they have been so; but, for my part, I prefer that one quality of singly beating of whole Armies, above all your moral vertues put together, I gad. You shall see him come in presently. Zookers, why don't you read the papyr?

O, cry you mercie.

Pish! nay you are such a fumbler. Come, I'l read it my self.

Stay, it's an ill hand, I must use my Spectacles. This, now, is a Copie of Verses, which I make Lardella compose, just as she is dying, with design to have it pin'd on her Coffin, and so read by one of the Usurpers, who is her Cousin.

A very shrewd design that, upon my word, Mr. Bayes.

And what do you think I fancie her to make Love like, here, in the papyr?

Like a woman: what should she make Love like?

O'my word you are out though, Sir; I gad you are.

What then? like a man?

No, Sir; like a Humble Bee.

I confess, that I should not have fancy'd.

It may be so, Sir. But it is, though, in order to the opinion of some of your ancient Philosophers, who held the transmigration of the soul.

Very fine.

I'l read the Title. To my dear Couz, King Phys.

That's a little too familiar with a King, though, Sir, by your favour, for a Humble Bee.

Mr. Smith, for other things, I grant your knowledge may be above me; but, as for Poetry, give me leave to say, I understand that better: it has been longer my practice; it has indeed, Sir.

Your servant, Sir.

After a pause. Admirable!

O rare! it is the most natural, refin'd fancie this, that ever I heard, I'l swear.

Yes, I think, for a dead person, it is a good enough way of making love: for being divested of her Terrestrial part, and all that, she is only capable of these little, pretty, a­morous designs that are innocent, and yet passionate. Come, draw your swords.

Now it's out. This is the very Funeral of the fair person which Volscius sent word was dead, and Pallas, you see, has turn'd it into a Banquet.

By my troth, now, that is new, and more than I ex­pected.

Yes, I knew this would please you: for the chief Art in Poetry is to elevate your expectation, and then bring you off some extraordinary way.

That is as much as to say, that though he would ra­ther [Page 38] die than not drink, yet he would fain drink for all that too.

Is not that now like a well-bred person, I gad? So modest, so gent!

O, very like.

I suppose, Mr. Bayes, this is the fierce Hero you spoke of.

Yes; but this is nothing: you shall see him, in the last Act, win above a dozen battels, one after another, I gad, as fast as they can possibly be represented.

That will be a sight worth seeing, indeed.

But pray, Mr. Bayes, why do you make the Kings let him use 'em so scurvily?

Phoo! that is to raise the character of Drawcansir.

O' my word, that was well thought on.

Now, Sir, I'l shew you a Scene indeed; or rather, in­deed, the Scene of Scenes. 'Tis an Heroick Scene.

And pray, Sir, what is your design in this Scene?

Why, Sir, my design is Roman Cloaths, guilded [Page 39] Truncheons, forc'd conceipt, smooth Verse, and a Rant: In fine, if this Scene does not take, I gad, I'l write no more. Come, come in, Mr. — a — nay, come in as many as you can. Gentlemen, I must desire you to remove a little, for I must fill the Stage.

Why fill the Stage?

O, Sir, because your Heroick Verse never sounds well, but when the Stage is full.

SCAENA II.

NAy, hold, hold; pray by your leave a little. Look you, Sir, the drift of this Scene is somewhat more than ordi­nary: for I make 'em both fall out because they are not in love with the same woman.

Not in love? you mean, I suppose, because they are in love, Mr. Bayes?

No, Sir; I say not in love: there's a new conceipt for you. Now speak.

Yes; but as far a fetch'd fancie, though, I gad, as ever you saw.

There's a bold flight for you now! 'Sdeath, I have lost my peruke. Well, Gentlemen, this is that I never yet saw any one could write, but my self. Here's true spirit and flame all through, I gad. So, So; pray clear the Stage.

But, Mr. Bayes, pray why is this Scene all in Verse?

O, Sir, the subject is too great for Prose.

Well said, i'faith; I'l give thee a pot of Ale for that answer: 'tis well worth it.

SCAENA I.

NOw, Gentlemen, I will be bold to say, I'l shew you the greatest Scene that ever England saw: I mean not for words, for those I do not value; but for state, shew, and magnificence. In fine, I'l justifie it to be as grand to the eye every whit, I gad, as that great Scene in Harry the Eight, and grander too, I gad; for, instead of two Bishops, I have brought in two other Cardinals.

Mr. Bayes, pray what is the reason that two of the Car­dinals are in Hats, and the other in Caps?

Why, Sir, because— By gad, I won't tell you.

I ask your pardon, Sir.

Now, Sir, to the business of the day.

Dread Soveraign Lords, my zeal to you, must not in­vade my duty to your Son; let me intreat that great Prince Pretty-man first do speak: whose high preheminence, in all things that do bear the name of good, may justly claim that pri­viledge.

Here it begins to unfold: you may perceive, now, that he is his Son.

Yes, Sir; and we are very much beholden to you for that discovery.

That preference is only due to Amarillis, Sir.

I'l make her speak very well, by and by, you shall see.

Invincible Soveraigns—

But stay, what sound is this invades our ears?

Sure 'tis the Musick of the moving Spheres.

Look you now, did not I tell you that this would be as easie a turn as the other?

Yes, faith, you did so; though, I confess, I could not believe you; but you have brought it about, I see.

Now, because the two Right Kings descend from a­bove, I make 'em sing to the Tune and Stile of our modern Spirits.

Haste, brother King, we are sent from above.

No Coranto quoth a! that's a good one, with all my heart. Come, sing on.

He's here with a whoop, and gone with a holla. This, Sir, you must know, I thought once to have brought in with a Conjurer.

I, that would have been better.

No, faith, not when you consider it: for thus 'tis more compendious, and does the thing every whit as well.

Thing! what thing?

Why, bring 'em down again into the Throne, Sir; what thing would you have?

Well; but, methinks, the Sence of this Song is not very plain.

Plain? why, did you ever hear any people in Clouds speak plain? They must be all for flight of fancie, at its full range, without the least check, or controul upon it. When once you tye up spirits, and people in Clouds to speak plain, you spoil all.

Bless me, what a Monster's this!

Come, now to serious counsel we'l advance.

I do agree; but first, let's have a Dance.

Right. You did that very well, Mr. Cartwright. But first, let's have a Dance. Pray remember that; be sure you do it always just so: for it must be done as if it were the ef­fect of thought, and premeditation. But first, let's have a Dance. Pray remember that.

Well▪ I can hold no longer, I must gag this rogue; there's no induring of him.

No, pr'ythee make use of thy patience a little lon­ger: let's see the end of him now.

This, now, is an ancient Dance, of right belonging [Page 46] to the Kings of Brentford; and since deriv'd, with a little al­teration, to the Inns of Court.

What sawcie Groom molests our privacies?

Ay, Sir, for fear the Usurpers might discover them that went out but just now.

Why, what if they had discover'd them?

Why then they had broke this design.

That's true, indeed. I did not think of that.

Here, take five Guineys for those warlike men.

And here's five more; that makes the sum just ten.

We have not seen so much the Lord knows when.

Speak on, brave Amarillis.

But, Mr. Bayes, did not you promise us, just now, to make Amarillis speak very well?

Ay, and so she would have done, but that they hin­der'd her.

How, Sir? whether you would or no?

Ay, Sir; the Plot lay so that, I vow to gad, it was not to be avoided.

Marry, that was hard.

But, pray, who hinder'd her?

Why, the battel, Sir, that's just coming in at door. And I'l tell you now a strange thing: though I don't pretend to do more than other men, I gad, I'l give you both a whole week to ghess how I'l represent this Battel.

I had rather be bound to fight your Battel, Sir, I assure you.

Why, there's it now: fight a Battel? there's the common error. I knew presently where I should have you. Why, pray, Sir, do but tell me this one thing, Can you think it a decent thing, in a battel before Ladies, to have men run their Swords through one another, and all that?

No, faith, 'tis not civil.

On the other side; to have a long relation of Squa­drons here, and Squadrons there: what is that but a dull pro­lixity?

Excellently reason'd, by my troth!

Wherefore, Sir, to avoid both those Indecorums, I sum up my whole battel in the representation of two persons only, no more: and yet so lively, that, I vow to gad, you would swear ten thousand men were at it, really engag'd. Do you mark me?

Yes, Sir; but I think I should hardly swear, though, for all that.

By my troth, Sir, but you would, though, when you fee it: for I make 'em both come out in Armor, Cap-a-pea, with their Swords drawn, and hung, with a scarlet Ribbon at their wrists, (which, you know, represents fighting enough) each of 'em holding a Lute in his hand.

How, Sir, instead of a Buckler?

O Lord, O Lord! instead of a Buckler? Pray, Sir, do you ask no more questions. I make 'em, Sir, play the bat­tel in Recitativo. And here's the conceipt. Just at the very same instant that one sings, the other, Sir, recovers you his Sword, and puts himself in a warlike posture: so that you have at once your ear entertain'd with Musick, and good Language; and your eye satisfi'd with the garb, and accoutrements of war. Is not that well?

I, what would you have more? he were a Devil that would not be satisfi'd with that.

I confess, Sir, you stupifie me.

You shall see.

But, Mr. Bayes, might not we have a little fighting for I love those Plays, where they cut and slash one another, upon the Stage, for a whole hour together.

Why, then, to tell you true, I have contriv'd it both ways. But you shall have my Recitativo first.

This, now, is not improper, I think, because the Spe­ctators know all these Towns, and may easily conceive them to be within the Dominions of the two Kings of Brentford.

Most exceeding well design'd!

How do you think I have contriv'd to give a stop to this battel?

How?

By an Eclipse: Which, let me tell you, is a kind of fancie that was yet never so much as thought of, but by my self, and one person more, that shall be nameless. Come, come in, Mr. —a—.

This is an admirable representation of a Battel, as e­ver I saw.

I, Sir. But how would you fancie now to represent an Eclipse?

Why, that's to be suppos'd.

Suppos'd! Ay, you are ever at your suppose: ha, ha, ha. Why, you may as well suppose the whole Play. No, [Page 50] it must come in upon the Stage, that's certain; but in some odd way, that may delight, amuse, and all that. I have a conceipt for't, that I am sure is new, and, I believe, to the purpose.

How's that?

Why, the truth is, I took the first hint of this out of a Dialogue, between Phoebus and Aurora, in the Slighted Maid: which, by my troth, was very pretty; though, I think, you'l confess this is a little better.

No doubt on't, Mr. Bayes.

But, Sir, you have heard, I suppose, that your Eclipse of the Moon, is nothing else, but an interposition of the Earth, between the Sun and Moon: as likewise your Eclipse of the Sun is caus'd by an interlocation of the Moon, betwixt the Earth and Sun?

I have heard so, indeed.

Well, Sir; what do me I, but make the Earth, Sun, and Moon, come out upon the Stage, and dance the Hey: hum? And, of necessity, by the very nature of this Dance, the Earth must be sometimes between the Sun and the Moon, and the Moon between the Earth and Sun; and there you have both your Eclipses. That is new, I gad, ha?

That must needs be very fine, truly.

Yes, there is some fancie in't. And then, Sir, that there may be something in it of a Joque, I make the Moon sell the Earth a Bargain. Come, come out Eclipse, to the Tune of Tom Tyler.

So, now, vanish Eclipse, and enter t'other Battel, and fight. Here now, if I am not mistaken, you will see fighting enough.

There's a brave fellow for you now, Sirs. I have read of your Hector, your Achilles, and a hundred more; but I defie all your Histories, and your Romances too, I [Page 51] gad, to shew me one such Conqueror, as this Drawcan­sir.

I swear, I think you may.

But, Mr. Bayes, how shall all these dead men go off? for I see none alive to help 'em.

Go off! why, as they came on; upon their legs: how should they go off? Why, do you think the people do not know they are not dead? He is mighty ignorant, poor man; your friend here is very silly, Mr. Iohnson, I gad; he is. Come, Sir, I'l show you go off. Rise, Sirs, land go about your business. There's go off for you. Hark you, Mr. Ivory. Gen­tlemen, I'l be with you presently.

Will you so? then we'l be gone.

I, pr'ythee let's go, that we may preserve our hear­ing. One Battel more would take mine quite away.

Where are the Gentlemen?

They are gone, Sir.

Gone! 'Sdeath, this last Act is best of all. I'l go fetch 'em again.

Stay, here's a foul piece of papyr of his. Let's see what 'tis.

The Argument of the Fifth Act.

Cloris, at length, being sensible of Prince Pretty-man's pas­sion, consents to marry him; but, just as they are going to Church, Prince Pretty-man meeting, by chance, with old Ioan the Chandlers widow, and remembring it was she that first brought him acquainted with Cloris: out of a high point of honour, break off his match with Cloris, and mar­ries old Ioan. Upon which, Cloris, in despair, drowns her self: and Prince Pretty-man, discontentedly, walks by the Ri­ver side.

Pox on't, this will never do: 'tis just like the rest. Come, let's be gone.

A plague on 'em both for me, they have made me sweat, to run after 'em. A couple of senceless rascals, that had rather go to dinner, than see this Play out, with a pox to 'em. What comfort has a man to write for such dull rogues? Come Mr.— a — Where are you, Sir? come away quick, quick.

Sir, they are gone to dinner.

Yes, I know the Gentlemen are gone; but I ask for the Players.

Why, an't please your worship, Sir, the Players are gone to dinner too.

How! are the Players gone to Dinner? 'Tis im­possible: the Players gone to dinner! I gad, if they are, I'l make 'em know what it is to injure a person that does 'em the honour to write for 'em, and all that. A company of proud, conceited, humorous, cross-grain'd persons, and all that. I gad, I'l make 'em the most contemptible, despicable, inconsi­derable persons, and all that, in the whole world, for this trick. I gad, I'l be reveng'd on 'em; I'l sell this Play to the other House.

Nay, good, Sir, don't take away the Book; you'l disappoint the Town, that comes to see it acted here, this afternoon.

That's all one. I must reserve this comfort to my self, my Book and I will go together, we will not part, in­deed, Sir. The Town! why, what care I for the Town? I gad, the Town has us'd me as scurvily, as the Players have done: but I'l be reveng'd on them too; I will both Lam­poon and print 'em too, I gad. Since they will not ad­mit of my Plays, they shall know what a Satyrist I am. And so farewel to this Stage for ever, I gad.

What shall we do now?

Come then, let's set up Bills for another Play: We shall lose nothing by this, I warrant you.

I am of your opinion. But, before we go, let's see Haynes and Shirley practise the last Dance; for that may serve for another Play.

I'l call 'em: I think they are in the Trying-room.

Come, come; let's go away to dinner.