_Mar. jun._ Yes, Sir, Alterations--I will maintain it, let a Play be
never so good, without Alteration it will do nothing.

_Wit._ Very odd indeed.

_Mar. jun._ Did you ever write, Sir?

_Wit._ No, Sir, I thank Heav'n.

_Mar. jun._ Oh! your humble Servant--your very humble Servant, Sir. When
you write yourself you will find the Necessity of Alterations. Why, Sir,
wou'd you guess that I had alter'd _Shakespear_?

_Wit._ Yes, faith, Sir, no one sooner.

_Mar. jun._ Alack-a-day! Was you to see the Plays when they are brought
to us--a Parcel of crude, undigested Stuff. We are the Persons, Sir, who
lick them into Form, that mould them into Shape--The Poet make the Play
indeed! The Colour-man might be as well said to make the Picture, or the
Weaver the Coat: My Father and I, Sir, are a Couple of poetical Tailors;
when a Play is brought us, we consider it as a Tailor does his Coat, we
cut it, Sir, we cut it: And let me tell you, we have the exact Measure
of the Town, we know how to fit their Taste. The Poets, between you and
me, are a Pack of ignorant--

_Wit._ Hold, hold, sir. This is not quite so civil to Mr. _Luckless_:
Besides, as I take it, you have done the Town the Honour of writing
yourself.