Young. Oh, an absolute Rabelais! Bev. What, I reckon, Sir Peter, you are going to the squire ?

Sir Pet. Yes; I extremely admire Sir Thomas: you know this is his day of assembly; I suppose you will be there? I can tell you, you are a wonderful favourite.

Bev. Am I?

Sir Pet. He says your natural genius is fine; and, when polished by his cultivation, will surprise and astonish the world.

Bev. I hope, sir, I shall have your voice with the public?

Sir Pet. Mine! O fie Mr. Bever!

Bev. Come, come, you are no inconsiderable patron.

Sir Pet. He, he, he! Can't say but I love to encourage the arts.

Bev. And have contributed largely yourself.
Young. What, is sir Peter an author?

Sir Pet. O fie! what, me? a mere dabbler; have blotted my fingers, 'tis true. Some sonnets, that have not been thought wanting in salt. Bev. And your epigrams.

Sir Pet. Not entirely without point. Bev. But come, sir Peter, the love of the arts is not the sole cause of your visits to the house you are going to.

Sir Pet. I don't understand you.

Bev. Miss Juliet, the niece.

Sir Pet. O fie! what chance have I there? Indeep, if lady Pepperpot should happen to pop off

Bev. I don't know that. You are, Sir Peter, a dangerous man: and, were I a father or uncle, I should not be a little shy of your visits.

Sir Pet. Psha! dear Bever, you banter ! Bev. And unless I am extremely out in my guess, that lady

Sir Pet. Hey! what, what, dear Bever?
Bev. But if you should betray me-

Bev. Poetic, but true. Now only conceive, Sir Peter, such a plantation of perfection to be devoured by by that caterpillar, Rust.

Sir Pet. A liquorish grub! Are pine-apples for such muckworms as he? I'll send him a jar of citrons and ginger, and poison the pipkin. Bev. No, no.

Sir Pet. Or invite him to dinner, and mix rat's-bane along with his curry.

Bev. Not so precipitate: I think we may defeat him without any danger.

Sir Pet. How, how?

Bev. I have a thought-but we must settle the plan with the lady. Could not you give her the hint that I should be glad to see her a moment.

Sir Pet. I'll do it directly.

Bev. But don't let Sir Thomas perceive you. Sir Pet. Never fear. You'll follow?

Bev. The instant I have settled matters with her; but fix the old fellow, so that she may not be missed.

Sir Pet. I'll nail him, I warrant; I have his opinion to beg on this manuscript.

Bev. Your own?

Sir Pet. No.

Bev. Oh, oh? what something new from the doctor, your chaplain ?

Sir Pet. He! no, no. O Lord, he's eloped! Bev. How!

Sir Pet. Gone. You know he was to dedecate his volume of fables to me: so I gave him thirty pounds to get my arms engraved, to prefix (by way of print) to the frontispiece; and, O grief of griefs! the doctor has moved off with the money. I'll send you Miss Juliet.

[Exit.

Bev. There, now, is a special protector? the arts I think, can't but flourish under such a Mæcenas.

Young. Heaven visits with a taste the wealthy

Sir Pet. Indeed!

Bev. True; but then to justify the dispensation,

From hence the poor are clothed, the hungry fed;

Fortunes to booksellers, to authors bred.

Young. The distribution is, I own, a little unequal; and here comes a melancholy instancepoor Dick Dactyl, and his publisher, Puff.

Enter DACTYL and PUFF.

Puff. Why, then, Mr. Dactyl, carry them to somebody else; there are people enough in the trade. But I wonder you would meddle with poetry; you know it rarely pays for the paper.

Dac. And how can one help it, Mr. Puff? genius impels; and when a man is once listed in the service of the muses

Puff. Why, let him give them warning as soon as he can. A pretty sort of service indeed,

where there are neither wages nor vails! The muses! And what, I suppose this is the livery they give! Gadzooks, I had rather be a waiter at Ranelagh.

Beo. The poet and publisher are at variance! What is the matter, Mr. Dactyl?

Dac. As Gad shall judge me, Mr. Bever, as pretty a poem, and so polite! not a mortal can take any offence; all full of panegyric and praise.

Puff. A fine character he gives of his works! No offence! the greatest in the world, Mr. Dactyl. Panegyric and praise! and what will that do with the public? why, who the devil will give money to be told, that Mr. Such-a-one is a wiser or better man than himself? No, no; 'tis quite clean out of nature. A good sousing satire now, well powdered with personal pepper, and seasoned with the spirit of party; that demolishes a conspicuous character, and sinks him below our own level; there, there, we are pleased! there we chuckle and grin, and toss the half-crowns on the counter.

Dac. Yes, and so get cropped for a libel.

Puff. Cropped! ay, and the luckiest thing that can happen to you. Why, I would not give twopence for an author that is afraid of his ears. Writing, writing is (as I may say), Mr. Dactyl, a sort of warfare, where none can be victor that is the least afraid of a scar. Why, tooks, sir, I never got salt to my porridge till I mounted at the royal exchange!

Bev. Indeed!

Dac. Ay, to you, indeed, it may answer; but what do we get for our pains?

Puff. His physic!

Dac. My physic! ay, my physic! Why, dare you deny it, you rascal! what have you forgot my powders for flatulent crudities? Puff. No.

Dac. My cosmetic lozenge, and sugar plumbs? Puff. No.

Dac. My coral for cutting of teeth, my po tions, my lotions, my pregnancy drops, with my paste for superfluous hairs?

Puff. No, no, have you done.

Dac. No, no, no! but I believe this will suffice for the present.

Puff. Now, would not any mortal believe that I owed my all to this fellow?

Bev. Why, indeed, Mr. Puff, the balance does seem in his favour.

Puff. In his favour! why you don't give any credit to him? a reptile, a bug, that owes his very being to me.

Dac. I, I, I!

Dac. Fiction!

Puff. Hey-day, what is the matter now? Dac. And is this the return for all the obligations you owe me? But no matter-the world, the world shall know what you are, and how you have used me.

Puff. Do your worst; I despise you.

Dac They shall be told from what a dunghill you sprang. Gentlemen, if there be faith in a sinner, that fellow owes every shilling to me. Puff. To thee!

Dac. Ay, sirrah, to me. In what kind of way did I find you? when, where and what was your state? Gentlemen, his shop was a shed in Moorfields; his kitchen, a broken pipkin of charcoal; and his bedchamber under the counter. Puff. I never was fond of expense¿ minded my trade.

I ever

Puff. Then did not I get you made collector of casualties to the Whitehall and St. James's? but that post your laziness lost you. Gentlemen, he never brought them a robbery till the highwayman was going to be hanged; a birth, till the christening was over; no death, till the hatchment was up.

Dac. Mighty well!

Puff. And now, because the fellow has got a little in flesh, by being puff to the play-house this winter (to which, by the by, I got him appointed), he is as proud and as vain as Voltaire. But I shall soon have him under! the vacation will

come.

Dac. Let it.

Puff. Then I shall have him sneaking and cringing, hanging about me, and begging a bit of translation.

Dac. I beg, I, for translation!

Puff. No, no, not a line; not if you would do it for two-pence a sheet. No boiled beef and

carrot at mornings; no more cold pudding and porter. You may take your leave of my shop.

Dac. Your shop! then at parting I will leave you a legacy.

Bev. O fie, Mr. Dactyl !
Puff. Let him alone.

Duc. Pray gentlemen, let me do myself justice!

Bev. Younger, restrain the publisher's fire. Young. Fie, gentlemen! such an illiberal combat! it is a scandal to the republic of letters. Bev. Mr. Dactyl, an old man, a mechanic, beneath

SCENE I.

Enter BEVER and YOUNGER.

Young. Poor Dactyl! and dwell such mighty rage in little men? I hope there is little danger of bloodshed?

Bev. Oh, not in the least: the gens vatum, the nation of poets, though an irritable, are yet a placable people. Their mutual interests will soon bring them together again.

Young. But shall not we be too late? The critical senate is by this time assembled.

Bev. I warrant, you, frequent and full, where
Stately Bufo, puffel by every quill,
Sits like Apollo on his forked hill.

But you know I must wait for Miss Lofty: I am now totally directed by her; she gives me the key to all Sir Thomas's foibles, and prescribes the most proper method to feed them: but what good purpose that will produce

Young. Is she clever, adroit?

Bev. Doubtless. I like your asking the question of me.

Young. Then pay an implicit obedience: the ladies, in these cases generally know what they are about. The door opens.

Bev. It is Juliet, and with her old Rust.You know the knight, so no introduction is wanted. [Exit YOUNGER.I should be glad to hear this reverend piece of lumber make love; the courtship must certainly be curious. Good manners, stand by; by your leave, I will listen a little. [BEVER retires.

Enter JULIET and RUST.

Jul. And your collection is large? Rust. Most curious and capital. When, madam, will you give me leave to add your charms to the catalogue?

Jul. O dear! Mr. Rust, I shall but disgrace it. Besides, sir, when I marry, I am resolved to have my husband all to myself: now, for the

possession of your heart I shall have too many competitors.

Rust. How, madam? were Prometheus alive and would animate the Helen that stands in my hall, she should not cost me a sigh.

Jul. Ay, sir, their lies my greatest misfortune. Had I only those who are alive to contend with, by assiduity, affections, cares, and caresses, I might secure my conquest, though that would be difficult; for, I am convinced, were you, Mr. Rust, put up by Prestage to Auction, the Apollo Belvidere would not draw a greater number of

bidders.

Rust. Would that were the case. madam, so I might be thought a proper companion to the Venus de Medicis !

Jul. The flower of rhetoric, and pink of politeness! But my fears are not confined to the living; for every nation and age, even painters and statuaries, conspire against me. Nay, when the pantheon itself, the very goddesses, rise up as my rivals, what chance has a mortal like me?—I shall certainly laugh in his face.

[Aside.

Rust. She is a delicate subject.-Goddesses, Madam! Zooks, had you been on Mount Ida when Paris decided the contest, the Cyprian queen had pleaded for the pippin in vain.

Jul. Extravagant gallantry.

Rust. In you madam, are concentered all the beauties of the heathen mythology; the open front of Diana, the lustre of Pallas' eyes

our rank in the skies, and wish to be treated as mortals.

Rust. Doubtless, madam; and are you wanting in materials for that? No, madam, as in dignity you surpass the heathen divinities, so, in the charms of attraction, you beggar the queens of the earth. The whole world, at different periods, has contributed its several beauties to form you.

Jul. The deuce it has !

your Portia or Flora, your Fum-Fam from China, or your Egyptian Osiris. You have long paid your addresses to them.

Rust. Marry! what, marble!

Jul. The properest wives in the world; you can't choose amiss; they will supply you with all that you want.

Rust. Your uncle has, madam consented.

Jul. With the majestic march of queen Bess. Mercy on me what a wonderful creature am I! Rust. In short, madam, not a feature you have, but recals to my mind some trait in a medal or bust.

Jul. Indeed! why by your account. I must be an absolute olio, a perfect salmagundy of charms.

Kust. Oh, madam, how can you demean, as I may say, undervalue.

Jul. Value! there is the thing! and to tell you the truth, Mr. Rust, in that word, value, lies my greatest objection.

Rust. I don't understand you.

Jul. Why then, I'll explain myself. It has been said, and I believe with some shadow of truth, that no man is a hero to his valet de chambre; now I am afraid, when you and I grow a little more intimate, which I suppose must be the case if you proceed on your plan, you will be horribly disappointed in your high expectations, and soon discover this Juno, this Cleopatra, and Princess Pompæa, to be as arrant a mortal, as madam your mother.

Rust. Madam, I, I, I—

Bev. Bravo, Juliet! gad, she's a fine spirited

girl!

Jul. My profile, indeed! No, sir; when I marry I must have a man that will meet me full face.

Rust. Might I be heard for a moment? Jul. To what end? You say you have Sir Thomas Lofty's consent; I tell you, you can never have mine. You may screen me from, or expose me to, my uncle's resentment; the choice is your own: if you lay the fault at my door, you will doubtless greatly distress me; but take the blame on yourself, and I shall own myself extremely obliged to you.

Rust. How! confess myself in the fault?

Jul. Ay; for the best thing a man can do, when he finds he can't be beloved, is to take care he is not heartily hated. There is no other alternative.

Rust. Madam, I shan't break my word with sir Thomas.

Jul. Nor I with myself. So there's an end of our conference. Sir, your very obedient. Rust. Madam, I, 1, don't-that is, let meBut no matter. Your servant. [Exit. Jul. Ha, ha, ha!

Enter BEVER from behind.

Bev. Ha, ha, ha ! Incomparable Juliet! how the old dotard trembled and tottered! he could not have been more inflamed, had he been robbed of his Otho.

Jul. Ay; was ever goddess so familiarly used? In my conscience, I began to be afraid that he would treat me as the Indians do their dirty divinities; whenever they are deaf to their prayer's they beat and abuse them.

Bev. But, after all, we are in an aukward situation.

Jul. How so?

Bev. I have my fears.

Jul. So have not I.

Bev. Your uncle has resolved that you shall be married to Rust.

Jul. Ay, he may decree; but it is I that must execute.

Ber. But suppose he has given his word ?
Jul. Why then let him recal it again.
Bev. But are you sure you shall have cou