Care. Hark you, good Gillian Day, be not so fierce upon the husband of thy bosom :-'twas but a small start of frailty: say it were a wench, or so! Ruth. As I live, he has hit upon't by chance. Now we shall have sport. [Aside. Mrs Day. How, a wench, a wench! out upon the hypocrite. A wench! was not I sufficient? A wench!-I'll be reveng'd; let him be ashamed, if he will.-Call the soldiers, Abel.

Care. Stay, good Abel; march not off so has tily.

Arb. Soft, gentle Abel, or I'll discover you are in bonds; you shall never be releas'd if you move

a step.

:

Ruth. D'ye hear, Mrs Day, be not so furious; hold your peace; you may divulge your husband's shame, if you are so simple, and cast him out of authority, nay, and have him tried for his life :read this. Remember too, I know of your bribery and cheating, and something else you guess. Be friends, and forgive one another. Here's a letter counterfeited from the king, to bestow preferment upon Mr Day if he would turn honest; by which means, I suppose, you cozen'd your brother cheats; in which he was to remember his service to you. I believe 'twas your inditing. You are the committee-man. 'Tis your best way (nay, never demur) to kiss, and be friends. Now, if you can contrive handsomely to cozen those that cozen all the world, and get these gentlemen to come by their estates easily, and without taking the covenant, the old sum of five hundred pounds, that I used to talk of, shall be yours yet.

Mrs Day. We will endeavour.

Ruth. Come, Mrs Arbella, pray let's all be friends.

Arb. With all my heart.

Care. No, good Teague, there's no need of thy message now:-But why dost thou lead Obadiah thus?

Teague. Well, I will hang him presently, that I will. Look you here, Mrs Tay; here's your man Obadiah, do you see? he would not let me make him drunk, so I did take him in this string, and I am going to choke him by the throat. Blunt. Honest Teague, thy master is beholden to thee, in some measure, for his liberty.

Care. Teague, I shall requite thy honesty. Teague. Well, shall I hang him then? It is a rogue, now, who would not be drunk for the king. Ob. I do beseech you, gentlemen, let me not be brought unto death.

Teague. You shall be brought to the gallows, you thief o' the world.

Care. No, poor Teague, 'tis enough; we are all friends. Come, let him go.

Teague. Are you all friends? Then, here, little Obid, take the string, and go and hang yourself. Care. D'ye hear, my friend; [To the Musician] are any of your companions with you? Mus. Yes, sir.

Cure. As I live, we'll all dance; it shall be the celebration of our weddings. Nay, Mr Day, as we hope to continue friends, you and your duck shall trip it too.

Teague. Ay, by my shoul will we: Obadiah shall be my woman too, and you shall dance for the king, that you shall.

Care. Go, and strike up then :-no chiding now, Mrs Day. Come, you must not be refractory for

once.

Mrs Day. Well, husband, since these gentlemen will have it so, and that they may perceive we are friends, dance.

Abel. I bear my afflictions as I may. Enter TEAGUE, leading OBADIAH in a Halter, and a Musician.

Teague. What is this now? Who are you? Well, are not you Mrs Tay? Well, I will tell her what I should say now! Shall I then? I will try if I cannot laugh too, as I did, or think of the mustard-pot.

pounds shall be ready.

Care. So, friends:-thanks, honest Teague; thou shalt flourish in a new livery for this. Now, Mrs Annice, I hope you and I may agree about kissing, and compound every way. Now, Mr Day,

If you will have good luck in every thing, Turn cavalier, and cry, God bless the king. [Exeunt omnes..

BY

We might well call this short mock-play of ours,
A posie made of weeds instead of flowers;
Yet such have been presented to your noses,
And there are such, I fear, who thought 'em roses.
Would some of 'em were here, to see, this night,
What stuff it is in which they took delight.
Here brisk, insipid rogues, for wit, let fall
Sometimes dull sense, but oft'ner none at all:
There strutting heroes, with a grim-fac'd train,
Shall brave the gods, in King Cambyses vein.
For (changing rules, of late, as if men writ
In spite of reason, nature, art, and wit,)
Our poets make us laugh at tragedy,
And with their comedies they make us cry.

Now, critics, do your worst, that here are met;
For, like a rook, I have hedg'd in my bet:
If you approve, I shall assume the state
Of those high-flyers whom I imitate;
And justly too; for I will teach you more
Than ever they would let you know before:
I will not only shew the feats they do,
But give you all their reasons for 'em too.
Some honour may to me from hence arise:
But if, by my endeavours, you grow wise,
And what you once so prais'd, shall now despise,
Then I'll cry out, swell'd with poetic rage,
'Tis I, John Lacy, have reform'd your stage.

SCENE I.

JOHNSON and SMITH.

John. Honest Frank! I am glad to see thee with all my heart. How long hast thou been in town?

Smi. Faith, not above an hour: and, if I had not met you here, I had gone to look you out; for I long to talk with you freely, of all the strange new things we have heard in the country.

John. And, by my troth, I have long'd as much to laugh with you, at all the impertinent, dull, fantastical things, we are tir'd out with here.

Smi. Dull and fantastic! that's an excellent composition.-Pray, what are our men of business doing?

John. I ne'er enquire after 'em. Thou knowest my humour lies another way. I love to please myself as much, and to trouble others as little as I can; and therefore do naturally avoid the company of those solemn fops, who, being incapable of reason, and insensible of wit and pleasure, are always looking grave, and troubling one another, in hopes to be thought men of business.

Smi. Indeed I have ever observ'd that your grave lookers are the dullest of men.

John. Ay, and of birds and beasts too: Your gravest bird is an owl, and your gravest beast is

an ass.

Smi. Well; but how dost thou pass thy time? John. Why, as I use to do; eat, drink as well as I can, have a she-friend to be private with in the afternoon, and sometimes see a play; where there are such things, Frank! such hideous, monstrous things, that it has almost made me forswear the stage, and resolve to apply myself to the solid nonsense of your men of business, as the more ingenious pastime.

Smi. I have heard, indeed, you have had lately many new plays; and our country wits commend

'em.

John. Ay, so do some of our city wits too; but they are of the new kind of wits.

Smi. New kind! what kind is that?

John. Why, your virtuosi, your civil persons, your drolls; fellows that scorn to imitate nature, but are given altogether to elevate and surprise. Smi. Elevate and surprise! pr'ythee make me understand the meaning of that.

John. Nay, by my troth; that's a hard matter; I don't understand that myself:-'Tis a phrase they have got among them, to express their no meaning by. I'll tell you, as near as I can, what it is. Let me see:-'tis fighting, loving, sleeping, rhyming, dying, dancing, singing, crying, and every thing, but thinking and sense.

Mr BAYES pusses over the Stage. Bayes. Your most obsequious and most obseryant very humble servant, sir.

John. Gad so! this is an author: I'll go fetch him to you.

Smi. No, pr'ythee let him alone.

John. Nay, by the Lord, I'll have him.[Goes after him. Here he is; I have caught him.-Pray, sir, now, for my sake, will you do a favour to this friend of mine?

Bayes. Sir, it is not within my small capacity to do favours, but receive 'em, especially from a person that does wear the honourable title you are pleas'd to impose, sir, upon this-Sweet sir, your servant.

Smi. Your humble servant, sir.

John. But wilt thou do me a favour, now?
Bayes. Ay, sir: What is't?

John. Why, to tell him the meaning of thy last

play.

Bayes. How, sir, the meaning? Do you mean the plot?

John. Ay, ay; any thing.

Bayes. Faith, sir, the intrigo's now quite out of my head; but I have a new one in my pocket, that I may say is a virgin; 't has never yet been blown upon. I must tell you one thing.-'Tis all new wit, and, though I say it, a better than my last; and you know well enough how that took. In fine, it shall read, and write, and act, and plot, and shew, ay, and pit, box, and gallery, 'egad, with any play in Europe. This morning is its last rehearsal, in their habits, and all that, as it is to be acted; and if you and your friend will do it but the honour to see it in its virgin attire, though, perhaps, it may blush, I shall not be asham'd to discover its nakedness unto you-I think it is in this pocket.

[Puts his hand in his pocket. John. Sir, I confess I am not able to answer you in this new way; but if you please to lead, I shall be glad to follow you; and I hope my friend will do so too.

Smi. Sir, I have no business so considerable as should keep me from your company.

Bayes. Yes, here it is. No, cry you mercy! This is my book of Drama Cominon-places; the mother of many other plays.

John. Drama Common-places! Pray what's that?

Bayes. Why, sir, some certain helps, that we men of art have found it convenient to make use of.

Smi. How, sir, helps for wit?

Bayes. Ay, sir, that's my position. And I do here aver, that no man yet the sun e'er shone upon has parts sufficient to furnish out a stage, except it were by the help of these my rules.

John. What are those rules, I pray?

Bayes. Why, sir, my first rule is the rule of transversion, or regula' duplex; changing verse into prose, or prose into verse, alternative, as you please.

Smi. Well; but how is this done by rule, sir? Bayes. Why, thus, sir; nothing so easy, when understood! I take a book in my hand, either at home or elsewhere, for that's all one; if there be any wit in't, as there is no book but has some, transverse it; that is, if it be prose, put it into verse, (but that takes up some time,) and if it be verse, put it into prose.

John. Methinks, Mr Bayes, that putting verse into prose should be call'd transprosing.

Bayes. By my troth, sir, 'tis a very good notion, and hereafter it shall be so.

Smi. Well, sir and what d'ye do with it then? Bayes. Make it my own. "Tis so chang'd that no man can know it.-My next rule is the rule of record, by way of table-book. Pray observe. John. We hear you, sir; go on.

Bayes. As thus:-I come into a coffee-house, or some other place where witty men resort; I make as if I minded nothing; (do you mark?) but as soon as any one speaks, pop I slap it down, and make that, too, my own.

John. But, Mr Bayes, are you not some time in danger of their making you restore, by force, what you have goften thus by art?

Bayes. No, sir; the world's unmindful: they never take notice of these things.

Smi. But pray Mr. Bayes, among all your other rules, have you no one rule for invention? Bayes. Yes, sir, that's my third rule, that I have here in my pocket.

Smi. What rule can that be, I wonder!

Bayes. Why, sir, when I have any thing to invent, I never trouble my head about it, as other men do, but presently turn over this book, and there I have, at one view, all that Persius, Montaigne, Seneca's Tragedies, Horace, Juvenal, Claudian, Pliny, Plutarch's Lives, and the rest, have ever thought upon this subject: and so, in a trice, by leaving out a few words, or putting in others of my own, the business is done.

John. Indeed, Mr Bayes, this is as sure and compendious a way of wit as ever I heard of.

Bayes. Sirs, if you make the least scruple of the efficacy of these my rules, do but come to the play-house, and you shall judge of 'em by the effects.

Smi. We'll follow you, sir.

[Exeunt.

Enter three Players upon the Stage. 1st Play. Have you your part perfect? 2d Play. Yes, I have it without book; but I don't understand how it is to be spoken.

3d Play. And mine is such a one, as I cann't guess, for my life, what humour I'm to be in; whether angry, melancholy, merry, or in love. I don't know what to make on't.

1st Play. Pho! the author will be here presently, and he'll tell us all. You must know, this is the new way of writing; and these hard things please forty times better than the old plain way; for, look you, sir, the grand design upon the stage is, to keep the auditors in suspense; for to guess presently at the plot and the sense, tires

them before the end of the first act: now, here, every line surprises you, and brings in matter. And then, for scenes, clothes, and dances, we put 'em quite down, all that ever went before us: and those are the things, you know, that are essential to a play.

2d Play. Well, I am not of thy mind; but, so it gets us money, 'tis no great matter.

Enter BAYES, JOHNSON, and SMITH. Bayes. Come, come in, gentlemen. Y'are very welcome. Mr-a- ha' you your part ready? 1st Play. Yes, sir.

Bayes. But do you understand the true humour of it?

1st Play. Ay, sir, pretty well.

Bayes. And Amarillis, how does she do? Does not her armour become her? 3d Play. O, admirably !

Bayes. I'll tell you, now, a pretty conceit: What do you think I'll make 'em call her anon, in this play?

Smi. What, I pray?

Bayes. Why, I make 'em call her Armarillis, because of her armour; ha, ha, ha!

John. That will be very well, indeed.

Bayes. Ay, it's a pretty little rogue; I knew her face would set off armour extremely; and, to tell you true, I writ that part only for her. You must know she is my mistress.

John. Then I know another thing, little Bayes, -that thou hast had her, 'egad.

Bayes. No, 'egad, not yet; but I am sure I shall; for I have talk'd bawdy to her already. John. Hast thou, faith? Pr'ythee how was that?

Bayes. Why, sir, there is, in the French tongue, a certain criticism, which, by the variation of the masculine adjective instead of the feminine, makes a quite different signification of the word: as, for example, ma vie is my life; but if, before vie you put mon instead of ma, you make it bawdy. John. Very true,

Bayes. Now, sir, I, having observ'd this, set a trap for her, the other day, in the tyring-room; for this said I: Adieu, bel esperansa de ma vie ; (which, 'egad, is very pretty;) to which she answer'd, I vow, almost as prettily every jot; for said she, Songez a ma vie, monsieur; whereupon I presently snapp'd this upon her:-Non, non, madam-Songez vous a mon, by gad; and nam'd the thing directly to her.

Smi. This is one of the richest stories, Mr Bayes, that ever I heard of.

Bayes. Ay, let me alone, 'egad, when I get to 'em; I'll nick 'em, I warrant you: But I'm a little nice; for you must know, at this time, I am kept by another woman, in the city.

Smi. How kept? for what?

Bayes. Why, for a beau garçon : I am, i'fackins. Smi. Nay, then we shall never have done. Bayes. And the rogue is so fond of me, Mr Johnson, that I vow to gad, I know not what to do with myself.

John. Do with thyself! no; I wonder how thou canst make a shift to hold out at this rate. Bayes. O, devil! I can toil like a horse; only sometimes it makes me melancholy; and then, I vow to gad, for a whole day together, I am not able to say you one good thing, if it were to save my life.

Smi. That we do verily believe, Mr Bayes. Bayes. And that's the only thing, 'egad, which mads me in my amours; for I'll tell you, as a friend, Mr Johnson, my acquaintances, I hear, begin to give out that I am dull: now I am the furthest from it in the world, 'egad; but only, forsooth, they think I am so, because I can say nothing.

John. Pho! pox! That's ill-natur'dly done of 'em.

Bayes. Ay, gad, there's no trusting o' these rogues; but-a-Come, let's sit down.-Look you, sirs, the chief hinge of this play, upon which the whole plot moves and turns, and that causes the variety of all the several accidents, which, you know, are the things in nature that makes up the grand refinement of a play, is, that I suppose two kings of the same place, as, for example, at Brentford; for I love to write familiarly: now the people baving the same relations to 'em both, the same affections, the same duty, the same obedience, and all that, are divided amongst themselves in point of devoir and interest, how to behave themselves equally between 'em, the kings differing sometimes in particular, though in the main they agree. (I know not whether I make myself well understood.)

John. I did not observe you, sir; pray say that again.

Bayes. Why, look you, sir, (nay, I beseech you, be a little curious in taking notice of this, or else you'll never understand my notion of the thing,) the people being embarrass'd by their equal ties to both, and the sovereigns concerned in a reciprocal regard, as well to their own interest as the good of the people, may make a certain kind of a-you understand me-upon which there does arise several disputes, turmoils, heartburnings, and all that-In fine, you'll apprehend it better when you see it. [Exit, to call the players.

Smi. I find the author will be very much obliged to the players, if they can make any sense out of this.

Enter BAYES.

Bayes. Now, gentlemen, I would fain ask your opinion of one thing. I have made a prologue and an epilogue, which may both serve for either; that is, the prologue for the epilogue, or the epilogue for the prologue; (do you mark ?) nay, they may both serve, too, 'egad, for any other play as well as this.

Smi. Very well. That's indeed artificial.

Bayes. And I would fain ask your judgments, now, which of them would do best for the prologue; for you must know there is in nature but

two ways of making very good prologues. The one is by civility, by insinuation, good language, and all that,-a-in a manner, steal your plaudit from the courtesy of the auditors; the other, by making use of some certain personal things, which may keep a hank upon such censuring persons as cannot otherways, 'egad, in nature, be hindered from being too free with their tongues. To which end, my first prologue is, that I come out in a long black veil, and a great huge hangman behind me, with a furred cap, and his sword drawn; and there tell 'em plainly, that if, out of good nature, they will not like my play, 'egad, I'll e'en kneel down, and he shall cut my head off. Whereupon they, all clapping,-a

Smi. Ay, but suppose they don't.

Bayes. Suppose! sir; you may suppose what you please; I have nothing to do with your suppose, sir, nor am not at all mortified at it; not at all, sir, 'egad, not one jot, sir. Suppose, quoth-a! -ha, ha, ha! [Walks away.

John. Pho prythee, Bayes, don't mind what he says, he is a fellow newly come out of the country; he knows nothing of what's the relish here of the town.

Bayes. If I writ, sir, to please the country, I should have followed the old plain way; but I write for some persons of quality, and peculiar friends of mine, that understand what flame and power in writing is: and they do me right, sir, to approve of what I do.

John. Ay, ay, they will clap, I warrant you; never fear it.

Bayes. I'm sure the design's good, that cannot be denied. And then for language, 'egad, I defy 'em all, in nature, to mend it. Besides, sir, I have printed above a hundred sheets of paper, to insinuate the plot into the boxes, and, withal, have appointed two or three dozen of my friends to be ready in the pit, who, I am sure, will clap, and so the rest, you know, must follow and then, pray, sir, what becomes of your suppose -ha, ha, ha!

John. Nay, if the business be so well laid, it cannot miss.

Bayes. I think so, sir, and therefore would chuse this to be the prologue; for if I could engage 'em to clap before they see the play, you know it would be so much the better; because then they were engaged; for let a man write never so well, there are, now-a-days, a sort of persons they call critics, that, 'egad, have no more wit in them than so many hobby-horses; but they'll laugh at you, sir, and find fault, and censure things, that, 'egad, I'm sure they are not able to do themselves: a sort of envious persons, that emulate the glories of persons of parts, and think to build their fame by calumniation of persons, that, e'gad, to my knowledge, of all persons in the world, are, in nature, the persons that do as much despise all that, as- -In fine, I'll say no more of 'em. John. Nay, you have said enough of 'em, in