_Wit_. Very odd indeed!

_Mar. jun_. Did you ever write, sir?

_Wit_. No, sir, I thank Heaven.

_Mar. jun_. Oh! your humble servant--your very humble servant,
sir. When you write yourself, you will find the necessity of
alterations. Why, sir, would you guess that I had altered Shakspeare?

_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 colourman 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.

_Mar. jun_. Sir, you are a man of sense, and express yourself
well. I did, as you say, once make a small sally into Parnassus--took
a sort of flying leap over Helicon; but if ever they catch me there
again--sir, the town have a prejudice to my family; for, if any play