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Show 30 The R E H K A R S A L. Bayes. No, I think you did not, nor many things more, that I a m mafter of. Now, Sir, I'gad, this is the Bane of all us Writers ; let us foar but never fo little above the common pitch, I'gad, all's fpoil'd ; for the Vulgar never underftand it, they can never conceive you, Sir, the Excellency of thefe Things. Jcbnfi 'Tis a fad fate, I muft confefs : But you write ©n ftill for all that! Bayes. Write on ? Ay, I'gad, I warrant you. 'Tis not their Talk fhall ftop m e ; if they catch m e at that lock, I'll give 'em leave to hang me. As long as I know my things are good, what care I what they fay ? What, are they gone, without fmging m y laft new Song ? 'Sbud would it were in their Bellies. I'll tell you, Mr. John/on, if I have any Skill in thefe matters I vow to gad, this Song is peremptorily the very beft that ever yet was written ; you muft know it was made by Tom Thimbles firft Wife after fhe was dead. Smith. H o w , Sir, after fhe was dead ? Bayes. Ay, Sir, after fhe was dead. Why, what have you to fay to that ? Johnf. Say ? why nothing : he were a Devil that had any thing to fay to that. Bayes. Right. Smith. H o w did fhe come to die, pray, Sir? Bayes. Phoo ! that's no matter ; by a Fall: But here's the Conceit, that upon his knowing fhe was kill'd by an Accident, he fuppofes, with a Sigh, that fhe dy'd for Love of him. Johnf. Ay, ay, that's well enough ; let's hear it, Mr. Bayes. Bayes. 'Tis to the Tune of, Farewel, fair Armida ; on Seas, and in Battles, in Bullets, and all that. SONG. In Swords, Pikes, and Bullets, 'tisfafer to be, Then in a firong Cafile, r emoted from thee: My Death's Bruife pray think xougave me, tho' a Fall Did give it ?ne more from the lop of a Wall; For then if the Moat on her Mud -zvouldfirfi lay, And after before you my Body convey: The blue on my Breaji when you happen to fee, You II fay with a Sigh, there's a True blue for me. 4 The R E H E A R S J\> L. $I Ha, Rogues! when I a m merry, I write thefe things as faft as Hops, I'gad •* for, you muft know, I a m as plea-fant a Debauchee as ever you faw : I am, i'faith. Sviitb. But, Mr. Bayes, h o w comes this Song in here ? for mediinks there is no great occafion for it. Bayes. Alack, Sir, you know nothing; you mtift ever interlard your Plays with Song-s Ghofts and Dances, if you mean to a Johnf Pit, Box, and Gallery, Mr. Bayes. Bayes. I'gad, and you havenick'd it. Hark you, M r. Johrfon, you know I don't flatter, I'gad you have a great deal of Wit. Johnf O Lord, Sir, you do m e too much honour. Bayes. Nay, nay, come, come, Mr. Johnfon, i'faith this muft not be faid amongft us that have it. 1 know you have Wit, by the Judgment you make of this Play ; for that's the Meafure w e go by : m y Play is m y Touchftone. When a M a n tells m e fuch a one is a Perfon of Parts : is he fo ? fay I; what do I do, but bring him prefently to fee this Play : if he likes it, I know what to think of him; if not, your moft humble Servant, Sir; I'll no more of him, upon m y word, I thank you. I a m Clara wjyant, I'gad. N o w here w e go on to our Bufinefs. SCENE II. Enter the two Ufurpers hand in hand. IP* T > U y what's become of Volfcius the Great ? J L J His Prefence has not grae'd our Court of late. Phyf I fear fome ill, from Emulation fprung, Has from us that illuftrious Hero wrung. Bnyes. Is not that majeftical ? Smith. Yes, but w h o a devil is that Volfcius! Bayes. W h y , that's a Prince I make in love with Par-thenope. Smith. I thank you, Sir. Enter Cordelio. Cor. M y Lieges, News from Volfcius the Prince. V(h. His news is welcome, whatfbe'er it be. Smith. H o w , Sir, do you mean whether it be good or bad ? Bayes. Nay, pray, Sir, have a little patience : gad- B 4 zookers, |