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fashion. You would not be out of time, at such a time as that, sure: A Taylor, you know, must never be out of fashion.
Bayes. Right.
Thim. I'm sure, Sir, I made your cloath in the Court-fashion, for you never paid me yet.
Bayes. There's a bob for the Court.
Pret. Why, Tom, thou art a sharp rogue when thou art angry, I see: thou pay'st me now, methinks.
Thim. I, Sir, in your own coyn: you give me nothing but words.
Bayes. Admirable, before gad.
Pret. Well, Tom, I hope shortly I shall have another coyn for thee; for now the Wars come on, I shall grow to be a man of mettal.
Bayes. O, you did not do that half enough.
Johns. Methinks he does it admirably.
Bayes. I, pretty well; but he does not hit me in't: he does not top his part.
Thim. That's the way to be stamp'd your self, Sir. I shall see you come home, like an Angel for the Kings-evil, with a hole bor'd through you. [Exeunt.
Bayes. That's very good, i'faith: ha, ha, ha. 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 snip snap, Sir, as you say; 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 stands still.
Bayes. Plot stand still! 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 Master of. Now, Sir, I gad, this is the bane of all us Writers: let us soar never so little above the common pitch, I gad, all's spoil'd; for the vulgar never understand us, they can never conceive you, Sir, the excellencie of these things.
Johns.
