ACT I.--SCENE I.
JOHNSON _and_ SMITH.
_Johns._ Honest Frank! I am glad to see thee with all my heart: how long hast thou been in town?
_Smith._ 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.
_Johns._ And, by my troth, I have long'd as much to laugh with you at all the impertinent, dull, fantastical things, we are tired out with here.
_Smith._ Dull and fantastical! that's an excellent composition. Pray, what are our men of business doing?
_Johns._ I ne'er inquire 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.
_Smith._ Indeed, I have ever observed, that your grave lookers are the dullest of men.
_Johns._ Ay, and of birds and beasts too: your gravest bird is an owl, and your gravest beast is an ass.
_Smith._ Well: but how dost thou pass thy time?
_Johns._ Why, as I used to do; eat, drink as well as I can, have a friend to chat 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.
_Smith._ I have heard, indeed, you have had lately many new plays; and our country wits commend 'em.
_Johns._ Ay, so do some of our city wits too; but they are of the new kind of wits.
_Smith._ New kind! what kind is that?
_Johns._ Why, your virtuousi; your civil persons, your drolls; fellows that scorn to imitate nature; but are given altogether to elevate and surprise.
_Smith._ Elevate and surprise! prithee, make me understand the meaning of that.
_Johns._ 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 everything, but thinking and sense.
MR. BAYES _passes over the stage_.
_Bayes._ Your most obsequious, and most observant, very servant, sir.
_Johns._ Odso, this is an author. I'll go fetch him to you.
_Smith._ No, prithee let him alone.
_Johns._ 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 pleased to impose, sir, upon this--sweet sir, your servant.
_Smith._ Your humble servant, sir.
_Johns._ But wilt thou do me a favour, now?
_Bayes._ Ay, sir, what is't?
_Johns._ Why, to tell him the meaning of thy last play.
_Bayes._ How, sir, the meaning? Do you mean the plot?
_Johns._ Ay, ay; anything.
_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; it 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 show, ay, and pit, box, and gallery, egad, with any play in Europe.[1] 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 ashamed to discover its nakedness unto you. I think it is in this pocket. [_Puts his hand in his pocket._
_Johns._ 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.
_Smith._ 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 Commonplaces, the mother of many other plays.
_Johns._ Drama Commonplaces! pray what's that?
_Bayes._ Why, sir, some certain helps that we men of art have found it convenient to make use of.
_Smith._ 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.[2]
_Johns._ 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, _alternativè_ as you please.
_Smith._ Well; but how is this done by a 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, I 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.
_Johns._ Methinks, Mr. Bayes, that putting verse into prose should be called transprosing.
_Bayes._ By my troth, sir, 'tis a very good notion; and hereafter it shall be so.
_Smith._ Well, sir, and what d'ye do with it then?
_Bayes._ Make it my own. 'Tis so changed that no man can know it. My next rule is the rule of record, by way of table-book. Pray observe.
_Johns._ 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.
_Johns._ But, Mr. Bayes, are you not sometimes in danger of their making you restore, by force, what you have gotten thus by art?
_Bayes._ No, sir; the world's unmindful: they never take notice of these things.
_Smith._ 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.
_Smith._ What rule can that be, I wonder?
_Bayes._ Why, sir, when I have anything 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.
_Johns._ Indeed, Mr. Bayes, this is as sure and compendious a way of wit as ever I heard of.
_Bayes._ Sir, if you make the least scruples of the efficacy of these my rules, do but come to the playhouse, and you shall judge of 'em by the effects.
_Smith._ We'll follow you, sir. [_Exeunt._
_Enter three_ PLAYERS _on the stage_.
_1st Play._ Have you your part perfect?
_2nd Play._ Yes, I have it without book; but I don't understand how it is to be spoken.
_3rd Play._ And mine is such a one, as I can'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._ Phoo! 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 new matter. And then, for scenes, clothes, and dances, we put quite down all that ever went before us; and those are the things, you know, that are essential to a play.
_2nd 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. You're 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 Amaryllis, how does she do? does not her armour become her?
_3rd Play._ Oh, admirably!
_Bayes._ I'll tell you now a pretty conceit. What do you think I'll make 'em call her anon, in this play?
_Smith._ What, I pray?
_Bayes._ Why, I make 'em call her Armaryllis, because of her armour: ha, ha, ha!
_Johns._ That will be very well indeed.
_Bayes._ Ay, 'tis a pretty little rogue; 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 make 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 having the same relations to 'em both, the same affections, the same duty, the same obedience, and all that, are divided among themselves in point of devoir and interest, how to behave themselves equally between 'em: these kings differing sometimes in particular; though, in the main, they agree. (I know not whether I make myself well understood.)
_Johns._ 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 concern'd in a reciprocal regard, as well to their own interest, as the good of the people, make a certain kind of a--you understand me--upon which, there do arise several disputes, turmoils, heart-burnings, and all that--in fine, you'll apprehend it better when you see it.
[_Exit, to call the Players._
_Smith._ 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;[3] (do you mark?) nay, they may both serve too, egad, for any other play as well as this.
_Smith._ 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, to--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 furr'd 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--
_Smith._ 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 at all mortified at it; not at all, sir; egad, not one jot, sir. Suppose, quoth-a!--ha, ha, ha! [_Walks away._
_Johns._ Phoo! prithee, 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 follow'd 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 the right, sir, to approve of what I do.
_Johns._ 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;[4] and, withal, have appointed two or three dozen of my friends to be ready in the pit, who, I'm sure, will clap, and so the rest, you know, must follow; and then, pray, sir, what becomes of your suppose? Ha, ha, ha!
_Johns._ Nay, if the business be so well laid, it cannot miss.
_Bayes._ I think so, sir; and therefore would choose 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 engag'd; for let a man write ever 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 calumniating of persons[5] that, egad, to my knowledge, of all persons in the world, are, in nature, the persons that do as much despise all that as--a-- In fine, I'll say no more of 'em.
_Johns._ Nay, you have said enough of 'em, in all conscience; I'm sure more than they'll e'er be able to answer.
_Bayes._ Why, I'll tell you, sir, sincerely and _bonâ fide_, were it not for the sake of some ingenious persons and choice female spirits, that have a value for me, I would see 'em all hang'd, egad, before I would e'er more set pen to paper, but let 'em live in ignorance like ingrates.
_Johns._ Ay, marry! that were a way to be reveng'd of 'em indeed; and, if I were in your place, now, I would do so.
_Bayes._ No, sir; there are certain ties upon me that I cannot be disengag'd from;[6] otherwise, I would. But pray, sir, how do you like my hangman?
_Smith._ By my troth, sir, I should like him very well.
_Bayes._ By how do you like it, sir? (for, I see, you can judge) would you have it for a prologue, or the epilogue?
_Johns._ Faith, sir, 'tis so good, let it e'en serve for both.
_Bayes._ No, no; that won't do. Besides, I have made another.
_Johns._ What other, sir?
_Bayes._ Why, sir, my other is Thunder and Lightning.
_Johns._ That's greater; I'd rather stick to that.
_Bayes._ Do you think so? I'll tell you then; tho' there have been many witty prologues written of late, yet, I think, you'll say this is a _non pareillo_: I'm sure nobody has hit upon it yet. For here, sir, I make my prologue to be a dialogue; and as, in my first, you see, I strive to oblige the auditors by civility, by good nature, good language, and all that; so, in this, by the other way, _in terrorem_, I choose for the persons Thunder and Lightning. Do you apprehend the conceit?
_Johns._ Phoo, phoo! then you have it cock-sure. They'll be hang'd before they'll dare affront an author that has 'em at that lock.
_Bayes._ I have made, too, one of the most delicate dainty similes in the whole world, egad, if I knew but how to apply it.
_Smith._ Let's hear it, I pray you.
_Bayes._ 'Tis an allusion to love. [7]"So boar and sow, when any storm is nigh, Snuff up, and smell it gath'ring in the sky; Boar beckons sow to trot in chestnut-groves, And there consummate their unfinish'd loves: Pensive in mud they wallow all alone, And snore and gruntle to each other's moan."
How do you like it now, ha?
_Johns._ Faith, 'tis extraordinary fine; and very applicable to Thunder and Lightning, methinks, because it speaks of a storm.
_Bayes._ Egad, and so it does, now I think on't: Mr. Johnson, I thank you; and I'll put it in _profecto_. Come out, Thunder and Lightning.
_Enter_ THUNDER _and_ LIGHTNING.
_Thun._ I am the bold Thunder.
_Bayes._ Mr. Cartwright, prithee speak that a little louder, and with a hoarse voice. I am the bold _Thunder_: pshaw! speak it me in a voice that thunders it out indeed: I am the bold _Thunder_.
_Thun._ I am the bold _Thunder_.[8]
_Light._ The brisk Lightning, I.
_Bayes._ Nay, you must be quick and nimble. The brisk _Lightning_, I. That's my meaning.
_Thun._ I am the bravest Hector of the sky.
_Light._ And I fair Helen, that made Hector die.
_Thun._ I strike men down.
_Light._ I fire the town.
_Thun._ Let critics take heed how they grumble, For then begin I for to rumble.
_Light._ Let the ladies allow us their graces, Or I'll blast all the paint on their faces, And dry up their petre to soot.
_Thun._ Let the critics look to't.
_Light._ Let the ladies look to't.[9]
_Thun._ For Thunder will do't.
_Light._ For Lightning will shoot.
_Thun._ I'll give you dash for dash.
_Light._ I'll give you flash for flash. Gallants, I'll singe your feather.
_Thun._ I'll thunder you together.
_Both._ Look to't, look to't; we'll do't, we'll do't. Look to't, we'll do't.
[_Twice or thrice repeated._ [_Exeunt ambo._
_Bayes._ There's no more. 'Tis but a flash of a prologue: a droll.
_Smith._ Yes, 'tis short indeed; but very terrible.
_Bayes._ Ay, when the simile's in, it will do to a miracle, egad. Come, come, begin the play.
_Enter_ FIRST PLAYER.
_1st Play._ Sir, Mr. Ivory is not come yet; but he'll be here presently, he's but two doors off.[10]
_Bayes._ Come then, gentlemen, let's go out and take a pipe of tobacco.
[_Exeunt._
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