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_One of the Men._) Why, Madam, to tell you the truth, in short, we are not able to continue in this Posture any longer, without we break our Backs; so we have unanimously resolv'd to stand upright.
(_All the Men and Women stand up, when they're come forward._
Mr. _Prais._ Hey! heres another Surprize!
_Mar._ Oh! the Devil; you have spoilt my Plot! you have ruin'd my play, ye Blockheads! ye Villains, I'll kill you all, burn the Book, and hang my self! (_Throws down the Book, and stamps upon it._
L. _Whiff._ _Taking up the Book._) Hold, Madam! Don't let Pa.s.sion provoke you, like the Knight of old, to destroy what After-ages cannot equal.
_Mar._ Why, my Lord _Amorous_, and _Isabella_ was to come in, and their wou'd have been such a Scene! a.s.ses! Ideots! Jolts! But they shall never speak a Line of mine, if it wou'd save 'em from in evitable ruine; I'll carry it to t'other House this very Moment.
Mr. _Awd._ Won't ye go home to Dinner first?
_Mar._ Dinner be d.a.m.n'd! I'll never eat more. See too! if any of their impudent People come to beg my Pardon! or appease me! Well, I will go, that's resolv'd.
Mr. _Prais._ Madam, consider; cou'd they not stoop agen, when _Isabella's_ come in; I'll try how 'tis. (_stoops_ Oun's 'tis Devillish painful.
_Mar._ Don't tell me, 'tis painful; if they'll do nothing for their Livings, let 'em starve and be hang'd. My Chair there.
L. _Whiff._ Madam, my Coach is at your Service, it waits without.
_Mar._ To be seen in my Lord's Coach is some Consolation (_aside_ My Lord, I desire to go directly into _Lincoln's-Inn-Fields_.
L. _Whiff._ Where you please, Madam.
_Mar._ I'll never set my Foot agen upon this confounded Stage. My Opera shall be first, and my _Catiline_ next; which I'd have these to know, shall absolutely break 'em. They may shut up their Doors; strole or starve, or do what ever the Devil puts in their heads; no more of _Marsilias_ Works, I a.s.sure 'em. Come, my Lord.
Mr. _Awd._ You won't go, Madam?
_Mar._ By my Soul, I will; your d.a.m.n'd ill Humour began my Misfortunes.
Farewel, _Momus_; farewel, Ideots: Hoa.r.s.e be your Voices, rotten your Lungs, want of Wit and Humour continue upon your d.a.m.n'd Poets, and Poverty consume you all. (_Exit._
_Prais._ What, ner'e a word to me! or did she put me among the Ideots?
Sir, the Lady's gone.
_Awd._ And you may go after; there's something to help you forward.
(_kicks him._
_Prais._ I intend, Sir, I intend it. (_Exit._
_Enter Mr._ Powell, _Mrs._ Knight, _Mrs._ Cross, _&c._ _Laughing_
_Awd._ So, what's the news now?
Mr. _Pow._ Oh, my Sides! my Sides! the wrathful Lady has run over a Chair, shatter'd the Gla.s.ses to pieces: The Chair-Men, to save it, fell pell-mell in with her. She has lost part of her Tail, broke her Fan, tore her Ruffles, and pull'd off half my Lord _Whiffle's_ Wigg, with trying to rise by it: So they are, with a s.h.a.green Air, and tatter'd Dress, gone into the Coach: Mr. _Praisall_ thrust in after 'em, with the bundle of Fragments, his Care had pick'd up from under the Fellows Feet.
Come, to make some Atonement, Entertain this Gentleman with the Dance you are practising for the next new Play.
A DANCE.
Mr. _Awd._ Mr. _Powell_, if you'll do me the favour to dine with me.
I'll prevent the Dinner I bespoke going to _Marsilia's_ Lodgings, and we'll eat it here.
Mr. _Pow._ With all my heart: I am at your Service.
_Awd._ _Thus warn'd, I'll leave the Scribler to her Fops, and Fate; I find she's neither worth my Love or Hate._
FINISH.
