_Lady Bluem_. Excuse me--'tis one in the "Stamps:"
He is made a collector.
_Tra_. Collector!
_Sir Rich_. How?
_Miss Lil_. What? 60
_Ink_. I shall think of him oft when I buy a new hat: There his works will appear--
_Lady Bluem_. Sir, they reach to the Ganges.
_Ink_. I sha'n't go so far--I can have them at Grange's.[625]
_Lady Bluem_. Oh fie!
_Miss Lil_. And for shame!
_Lady Bluem_. You're too bad.
_Both_. Very good!
_Lady Bluem_. How good?
_Lady Blueb_. He means nought--'tis his phrase.
_Lady Bluem_. He grows rude.
_Lady Blueb_. He means nothing; nay, ask him.
_Lady Bluem_. Pray, Sir! did you mean What you say?
_Ink_. Never mind if he did; 'twill be seen That whatever he means won't alloy what he says.
_Both_. Sir!
_Ink_. Pray be content with your portion of praise; 'Twas in your defence.
_Both_. If you please, with submission 70 I can make out my own.
_Ink_. It would be your perdition.
While you live, my dear Botherby, never defend Yourself or your works; but leave both to a friend.
Apropos--Is your play then accepted at last?
_Both_. At last?
_Ink_. Why I thought--that's to say--there had passed A few green-room whispers, which hinted,--you know That the taste of the actors at best is so so.[626]
_Both_. Sir, the green-room's in rapture, and so's the Committee.
_Ink_. Aye--yours are the plays for exciting our "pity And fear," as the Greek says: for "purging the mind,"80 I doubt if you'll leave us an equal behind.
_Both_. I have written the prologue, and meant to have prayed For a spice of your wit in an epilogue's aid.
_Ink_. Well, time enough yet, when the play's to be played.
Is it cast yet?
_Both_. The actors are fighting for parts, As is usual in that most litigious of arts.
_Lady Blueb_. We'll all make a party, and go the _first_ night.
_Tra_. And you promised the epilogue, Inkel.
_Ink_. Not quite.
However, to save my friend Botherby trouble, I'll do what I can, though my pains must be double. 90
_Tra_. Why so?
_Ink_. To do justice to what goes before.
_Both_. Sir, I'm happy to say, I've no fears on that score.
Your parts, Mr. Inkel, are----
_Ink_. Never mind _mine_; Stick to those of your play, which is quite your own line.
_Lady Bluem_. You're a fugitive writer, I think, sir, of rhymes?[627]
_Ink_. Yes, ma'am; and a fugitive reader sometimes.
On Wordswords, for instance, I seldom alight, Or on Mouthey, his friend, without taking to flight.
_Lady Bluem_. Sir, your taste is too common; but time and posterity Will right these great men, and this age's severity 100 Become its reproach.
_Ink_. I've no sort of objection, So I'm not of the party to take the infection.
_Lady Blueb_. Perhaps you have doubts that they ever will _take_?
_Ink_. Not at all; on the contrary, those of the lake Have taken already, and still will continue To take--what they can, from a groat to a guinea, Of pension or place;--but the subject's a bore.
_Lady Bluem_. Well, sir, the time's coming.
_Ink_. Scamp! don't you feel sore?
What say you to this?
_Scamp_. They have merit, I own; Though their system's absurdity keeps it unknown, 110
_Ink_. Then why not unearth it in one of your lectures?
_Scamp_. It is only time past which comes under my strictures.