Thim. Why, an't please your highnefs, if I can't make up all the work I cut out, I shan't want journeymen enough to help me, I warrant you. Bayes. Good again. Pret. I am afraid thy journeymen tho', Tom, won't work by the day, but by the night. Bayes. Good still. Thim. However, if my wife fits but cross-legg'd, as I do, there will be no great danger; not half fo much as when I trusted you, Sir, for your coronation-fuit. Bayes. Very good i'faith. Pret. Why, the times then liv'd upon truft; it was the fashion. You would not be out of time, at fuch a time, as that, fure: A taylor, you know, must never be out of fashion. Bayes. Right. * Thim. I'm fure, Sir, I made your cloaths in the court-fashion, for you never paid me yet. Bayes. There's a bob for the court. Pret. Why, Tom, thou'rt a sharp rogue when * I'm fure I made your cloaths, &c.] "Nay, if that be "all, there's no fuch hafte. The courtiers are not so for"ward to pay their debts." Wild Gallant, p. 9. thou art angry, I fee: thou pay'ft me now, methinks. Bayes. There's pay upon pay, as good as ever was written. * Thim. Ay, Sir, in your own coin: you give me nothing but words. Bayes. Admirable, before gad! Pret. Well, Tom, I hope fhortly I fhall have another coin for thee; for now the wars are coming on, I fhall grow to be a man of metal. Bayes. O, you did not do that half enough. Johnf. Methinks he does it admirably. Bayes. Ay, pretty well; but he does not hit me in't: the does not top his part. * Ay, Sir, in your own coin, you give me nothing but words.] "Failer. Take a little Bibber, And throw him in the river, "And if he will truft never, "Take a little Failer, « ́And throw him to the jailor, "And there let him lie, “Till he has paid his taylor." Wild Gall. p. 12. He does not top his part.] To top a part was a great word with Mr. Edward Howard. Thim. That's the way to be ftamp'd yourself, Sir. I fhall fee you come home, like an angel for the king's evil, with a hole bor'd thro' you. [Exeunt. Bayes. Ha, there he has hit it up to the hilts, I'gad! How do you like it now, gentlemen? is not this pure wit ? Smi. 'Tis fnip fnap, Sir, as you fay; but methinks, not pleasant, nor to the purpose, for the play does not go on. Bayes. Play does not go on! I don't know what you mean! why, is not this part of the play? Smi. Yes, but the plot ftands ftill. : Bayes. Plot stands ftill! why, what a devil is the plot good for, but to bring in fine things? Smi. O, I did not know that before. Bayes. No, I think you did not; nor many things more that I am 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 spoil'd, for the vulgar never understand it; they can never conceive you, Sir, the excellency of these things. Johnf. 'Tis a fad fate, I must confefs; but you write on ftill for all that? Bayes. Write on! Ay, I'gad, I warrant you. 'Tis not their talk fhall stop me; if they catch me 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 finging my laft new fong? 'Sbud, would it were in their bellies. I'll tell you, Mr. Johnfon, if I have any fkill in thefe matters, I vow to gad, this fong is peremptorily the very best that ever yet was written: you must know, it was made by Tom Thimble's first wife after she was dead. Smi. How, Sir, after the 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. Smi. How did fhe come to die, pray, Sir. * As long as I know my things are good, what care I what they fay.] Referring to Mr. Dryden's obftinate adherence to fome things in his plays, in oppofition to the found judgment of all unprejudic'd Critics. See an inftance of this noticed in the note, p. 178. Bayes. Bayes. Phoo! that's no matter; by a fall; but here's the conceit, that, upon his knowing fhe was killed by an accident, he fuppofes, with a figh, that fhe died 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 feas, and in battles, in bullets, and all that. * In fwords, pikes, and bullets, 'tis fafer to be, Than in a ftrong caftle, remoted from thee: * In fwords, pikes, and bullets, &c.] In imitation of this paffage, "On feas, and in battles, thro' bullets and fire, "The danger is less, than in hopeless defire; "My death's wound you gave me, tho' far off I bear "My fall from your fight, not to cost you a tear; "But if the kind flood on a wave would convey, "And under your window my body would lay; "When the wound on my breast you happen to see, "You'll fay, with a figh, it was given by me." This is the latter part of a fong made by Mr. Bayes, on the death of captain Digby, son of George earl of Bristol, who was a paffionate admirer of the dutchess dowager of Richmond, called by the author, Armida; he lost his life in a sea-fight against the Dutch, the 28th of May, 1672. My |