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Enter Bayes.
Bayes. A plague on 'em both for me, they have made me sweat, to run after 'em. A couple of senceless rascals, that had rather go to dinner, than see this Play out, with a pox to 'em. What comfort has a man to write for such dull rogues? Come Mr. ——— a ——— Where are you, Sir? come away quick, quick.
Enter Players again.
Play. Sir, they are gone to dinner.
Bayes. Yes, I know the Gentlemen are gone; but I ask for the Players.
Play. Why, an't please your worship, Sir, the Players are gone to dinner too.
Bayes. How! are the Players gone to Dinner? 'Tis impossible: the Players gone to dinner! I gad, if they are, I'l make 'em know what it is to injure a person that does 'em the honour to write for 'em, and all that. A company of proud, conceited, humorous, cross-grain'd persons, and all that. I gad, I'l make 'em the most contemptible, despicable, inconsiderable persons, and all that, in the whole world, for this trick. I gad, I'l be reveng'd on 'em; I'l sell this Play to the other House.
Play. Nay, good, Sir, don't take away the Book; you'l disappoint the Town, that comes to see it acted here, this afternoon.
Bayes. That's all one. I must reserve this comfort to my self, my Book and I will go together, we will not part, indeed, Sir. The Town! why, what care I for the Town? I gad, the Town has us'd me as scurvily, as the Players have done: but I'l be reveng'd on them too; I will both Lampoon and print 'em too, I gad. Since they will not admit of my Plays, they shall know what a Satyrist I am. And so farewel to this Stage for ever, I gad. [Exit.
1 Play. What shall we do now?
2 Play.
