ACT III.--SCENE I.

BAYES _with a paper on his nose_, _and the two Gentlemen_.

_Bayes._ Now, sirs, this I do, because my fancy, in this play, is, to end every act with a dance.

_Smith._ Faith, that fancy is very good; but I should hardly have broke my nose for it, tho'.

_Johns._ That fancy I suppose is new too.

_Bayes._ Sir, all my fancies are so. I tread upon no man's heels; but make my flight upon my own wings, I assure you. Now, here comes in a scene of sheer wit, without any mixture in the whole world, egad! between Prince Prettyman and his tailor: it might properly enough be call'd a prize of wit; for you shall see them come in one upon 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 conceit; and so eternally, eternally, egad, till they go quite off the stage. [_Goes to call the Players._

_Smith._ What a plague does this fop mean, by his snip snap, hit for hit, and dash!

_Johns._ Mean! why, he never meant anything in's life; what dost talk of meaning for?

_Enter_ BAYES.

_Bayes._ Why don't you come in?

_Enter_ PRINCE PRETTYMAN _and_ TOM THIMBLE.[19]

This scene will make you die with laughing, if it be well acted, for 'tis as full of drollery as ever it can hold. 'Tis like an orange stuff'd with cloves, as for conceit.

_Pret._ But prithee, Tom Thimble, why wilt thou needs marry? if nine tailors make but one man, what work art thou cutting out here for thyself, trow?

_Bayes._ Good.

_Thim._ Why, an't please your highness, if I can't make up all the work I cut out, I shan't want journeymen enow to help me, I warrant you.

_Bayes._ Good again.

_Pret._ I am afraid thy journeymen, tho', Tom, won't work by the day.

_Bayes._ Good still.

_Thim._ However, if my wife sits but as I do, there will be no great danger: not half so much as when I trusted you, sir, for your coronation-suit.

_Bayes._ Very good, i'faith.

_Pret._ Why the times then liv'd upon trust; it was the fashion. You would not be out of time, at such a time as that, sure: a tailor, you know, must never be out of fashion.

_Bayes._ Right.

_Thim._ I'm sure, sir, I made your clothes in the court-fashion, for you never paid me yet.

_Bayes._ There's a bob for the court.[20]

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

_Bayes._ There's pay upon pay! as good as ever was written, egad!

_Thim._ Ay, sir, in your own coin; you give me nothing but words.[21]

_Bayes._ Admirable!

_Pret._ Well, Tom, I hope shortly I shall have another coin for thee; for now the wars are coming on, I shall grow to be a man of metal.

_Bayes._ Oh, you did not do that half enough.

_Johns._ Methinks he does it admirably.

_Bayes._ Ay, pretty well; but he does not hit me in't: he does not top his part.[22]

_Thim._ That's the way to be stamp'd yourself, sir. I shall see you come home, like an angel for the king's evil, with a hole bor'd thro' you.

[_Exeunt._

_Bayes._ Ha, there he has hit it up to the hilts, egad! How do you like it now, gentlemen? is not this pure wit?

_Smith._ 'Tis snip-snap, sir, as you say; but methinks not pleasant, nor to the purpose; for the play does not go on.

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

_Smith._ Yes; but the plot stands still.

_Bayes._ Plot stand still! why, what a devil is the plot good for, but to bring in fine things?

_Smith._ Oh, I did not know that before.

_Bayes._ No, I think you did not, nor many things more, that I am master of. Now, sir, egad, this is the bane of all us writers; let us soar but never so little above the common pitch, egad, all's spoil'd, for the vulgar never understand it; they can never conceive you, sir, the excellency of these things.

_Johns._ 'Tis a sad fate, I must confess; but you write on still for all that!

_Bayes._ Write on? Ay, egad, I warrant you. 'Tis not their talk shall stop me; if they catch me at that lock, I'll give them leave to hang me. As long as I know my things are good, what care I what they say? What, are they gone without singing my last new song? 'sbud would it were in their bellies. I'll tell you, Mr. Johnson, if I have any skill in these matters, I vow to gad this song is peremptorily the very best that ever yet was written: you must know it was made by Tom Thimble's first wife after she was dead.

_Smith._ How, sir, after she was dead?

_Bayes._ Ay, sir, after she was dead. Why, what have you to say to that?

_Johns._ Say? why nothing. He were a devil that had anything to say to that.

_Bayes._ Right.

_Smith._ How did she come to die, pray, sir?

_Bayes._ Phoo! that's no matter; by a fall: but here's the conceit, that upon his knowing she was kill'd by an accident, he supposes, with a sigh, that she died for love of him.

_Johns._ Ay, ay, that's well enough; let's hear it, Mr. Bayes.

_Bayes._ 'Tis to the tune of "Farewell, fair Armida;" on seas, and in battles, in bullets, and all that.

SONG.[23]

In swords, pikes, and bullets, 'tis safer to be, Than in a strong castle, remoted from thee: My death's bruise pray think you gave me, tho' a fall Did give it me more from the top of a wall: For then if the moat on her mud would first lay, And after before you my body convey: The blue on my breast when you happen to see, You'll say with a sigh, there's a true blue for me.

Ha, rogues! when I am merry, I write these things as fast as hops, egad; for, you must know, I am as pleasant a cavalier as ever you saw; I am, i'faith.

_Smith._ But, Mr. Bayes, how comes this song in here? for methinks there is no great occasion for it.

_Bayes._ Alack, sir, you know nothing; you must ever interlard your plays with songs, ghosts, and dances, if you mean to--a--

_Johns._ Pit, box, and gallery,[24] Mr. Bayes.

_Bayes._ Egad, and you have nick'd it. Hark you, Mr. Johnson, you know I don't flatter; egad, you have a great deal of wit.

_Johns._ O Lord, sir, you do me too much honour.

_Bayes._ Nay, nay, come, come, Mr. Johnson, i'faith this must not be said amongst us that have it. I know you have wit, by the judgment you make of this play; for that's the measure we go by: my play is my touchstone. 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'll no more of him, upon my word, I thank you. I am _Clara voyant_, egad. Now here we go on to our business.