Horn. Yes; but I thought you had gone to plays, to laugh at the poet’s wit, not at your own.

Spark. Your servant, sir: no, I thank you. ’Gad, I go to a play as to a country treat; I carry my own wine to one, and my own wit to t’other, or else I’m sure I should not be merry at either. And the reason why we are so often louder than the players, is, because we think we speak more wit, and so become the poet’s rivals in his audience: for to tell you the truth, we hate the silly rogues; nay, so much, that we find fault even with their bawdy upon the stage, whilst we talk nothing else in the pit as loud.

Horn. But why shouldst thou hate the silly poets? Thou hast too much wit to be one; and they, like whores, are only hated by each other: and thou dost scorn writing, I’m sure.

Spark. Yes; I’d have you to know I scorn writing: but women, women, that make men do all foolish things, make ’em write songs too. Everybody does it. ’Tis even as common with lovers, as playing with fans; and you can no more help rhyming to your Phillis, than drinking to your Phillis.

Har. Nay, poetry in love is no more to be avoided than jealousy.

Dor. But the poets damned your songs, did they?

Spark. Damn the poets! they have turned ’em into burlesque, as they call it. That burlesque is a hocus- pocus trick they have got, which, by the virtue of Hictius doctius topsy turvy, they make a wise and witty man in the world, a fool upon the stage you know not how: and ’tis therefore I hate ’em too, for I know not but it may be my own case; for they’ll put a man into a play for looking asquint. Their predecessors were contented to make serving-men only their stage-fools: but these rogues must have gentlemen, with a pox to ’em, nay, knights; and, indeed, you shall hardly see a fool upon the stage but he’s a knight. And to tell you the truth, they have kept me these six years from being a knight in earnest, for fear of being knighted in a play, and dubbed a fool.

Dor. Blame ’em not, they must follow their copy, the age.

Har. But why shouldst thou be afraid of being in a play, who expose yourself every day in the play-houses, and at public places?

Hor. ’Tis but being on the stage, instead of standing on a bench in the pit.

Dor. Don’t you give money to painters to draw you like? and are you afraid of your pictures at length in a playhouse, where all your mistresses may see you?

Spark. A pox! painters don’t draw the small-pox or pimples in one’s face. Come, damn all your silly authors whatever, all books and booksellers, by the world; and all readers, courteous or uncourteous!

Har. But who comes here, Sparkish?

Enter PINCHWIFE and Mrs. PINCHWIFE in man’s clothes,

ALITHEA and LUCY.

Spark. Oh, hide me! There’s my mistress too.

[SPARKISH hides himself behind HARCOURT.

Har. She sees you.

Spark. But I will not see her. ’Tis time to go to Whitehall, and I must not fail the drawing-room.

Har. Pray, first carry me, and reconcile me to her.