VALENTINE, SCANDAL, JEREMY.

SCAN. What, Jeremy holding forth?

VAL. The rogue has (with all the wit he could muster up) been
declaiming against wit.

SCAN. Ay? Why, then, I'm afraid Jeremy has wit: for wherever it
is, it's always contriving its own ruin.

JERE. Why, so I have been telling my master, sir: Mr Scandal, for
heaven's sake, sir, try if you can dissuade him from turning poet.

SCAN. Poet! He shall turn soldier first, and rather depend upon
the outside of his head than the lining. Why, what the devil, has
not your poverty made you enemies enough? Must you needs shew your
wit to get more?

JERE. Ay, more indeed: for who cares for anybody that has more wit
than himself?

SCAN. Jeremy speaks like an oracle. Don't you see how worthless
great men and dull rich rogues avoid a witty man of small fortune?
Why, he looks like a writ of enquiry into their titles and estates,
and seems commissioned by heaven to seize hte better half.

VAL. Therefore I would rail in my writings, and be revenged.

SCAN. Rail? At whom? The whole world? Impotent and vain! Who