ACTUS III. SCENA I. BAYES with a papyr on his Nofe, and the two Gentlemen. BAYES. N Ow, Sir, this I do, because my fancie in this Play is to end every Act with a Dance. SMI. Faith, that fancie is very good, but I fhould hardly have broke my nofe for it, though. JOHNS. That fancie, I fuppofe, is new too. BAYES. Sir, all my fancies are fo. I tread upon no mans heels; but make my flight upon my own wings, I affure you. As, now, this next Scene fome perhaps will fay, It is not very neceffary to the Plot: I grant it; what then? I meant it so. But then it's as full of Drollery as ever it can hold: 'tis like an Orange ftuck with Cloves, as for conceipt. Come, where are you? This Scene will make you die with laughing, if it be well acted: it is a Scene of sheer Wit, without any mixture in the world, I gad. [ReadsEnter' Prince Pretty-man, and Tom Thimble his Taylor. This, Sirs, might properly enough be call'd a prize of Wit; for you fhall fee 'em come in upon one another fnip fnap, hit for hit, as faft as can be. First one speaks, then presently t'other's upon him slap, with a Repartee; then he at him again, dash with a new conceipt: and fo eternally, eternally, I gad, till they go quite off the Stage. [Goes to call the Players. SMI. What a plague, does this Fop mean by his snip fnap, hit for hit, and dash? JOHNS. Mean? why, he never meant any thing in's life: what doft talk of meaning for? 'Nay, if that be all, there's no fuch haft: the Courtiers are not fo forward to pay their Debts. J. DRYDEN. The Wild Gallant, Act i. p. 11. Ed. 1669. Failer. Then say I: Take a little Bibber, And throw him in the River, And if he will truft never, Then there let him lie ever. Bibber. Then say I: Take a little Fauer, And throw him to the Jaylour; And there let him lie Till he has paid his Taylor. Idem, Act ii. Sc. ii. p 15. Enter BAYES. BAYES. Why don't you come in? Enter Prince Pretty-man and Tom Thimble. Pret. But pr'ythee, Tom Thimble, why wilt thou needs marry? If nine Taylors make but one man ; and one woman cannot be fatisfi'd with nine men: what work art thou cutting out here for thy felf, trow we? BAYES. Good. Thim. Why, an't please your Highness, if I can't make up all the work I cut out, I fhan't want Journeymen to help me, I warrant you. BAYES. Good again. Pret. I am afraid thy Journey-men, though, Tom, won't work by the day, but by the night. BAYES. Good still. Thim. However, if my wife fits but cross-leg'd, as I do, there will be no great danger: not half fo much as when I trusted you for your Coronation-suit. BAYES. Very good, i'faith. Pret. Why, the times then liv'd upon trust; it was the fashion. You would not be out of time, at such 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 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 fharp rogue when thou art angry, I fee: thou pay'st me now, methinks. Thim. I, Sir, in your own coyn: you give me nothing but words.2 BAYES. Admirable, before gad. Pret. Well, Tom, I hope fhortly I fhall have another coyn for thee; for now the Wars come on, I shall grow to be a man of mettal. |