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 Johns. 'Tis a sad fate, I must confess: but you write on still?

Bayes. Write on? I, I gad, I warrant you. 'Tis not their talk shall stop me: if they catch me at that lock, I'l give 'em leave to hang me. As long as I know my things to be good, what care I what they say? What, they are gone, and forgot the Song!

Smi. They have done very well, methinks, here's no need of one.

Bayes. Alack, Sir, you know nothing: you must ever interlard your Plays with Songs, Ghosts and Idols, if you mean to a

Johns. Pit, Box and Gallery, Mr. Bayes.

Bayes. I gad, Sir, and you have nick'd it. Hark you, Mr. Johnson, you know I don't flatter, a gad, you have a great deal of Wit.

Johns. O Lord, Sir, you do me too much honour.

Bayes. Nay, nay, come, come, Mr. Johnson, Ifacks this must not be said, amongst us that have it. I know you have wit by the judgement you make of this Play; for that's the measure I go by: my Play is my Touch-stone. 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'l no more of him upon my word, I thank you. I am Clara voyant, a gad. Now here we go on to our business.

Ut what's become of Volscius the great? His presence has not grac'd our Court of late.

Phys. I fear some ill, from emulation sprung, Has from us that Illustrious Hero wrung.

Bayes. Is not that Majestical?

Smi. Yes, but who a Devil is that Volscius?