could have made them ashamed to damn it, mine must. It was all over
plot. It would have made half a dozen novels: nor was it crammed with
a pack of wit-traps, like Congreve and Wycherly, where every one knows
when the joke was coming. I defy the sharpest critick of them all to
have known when any jokes of mine were coming. The dialogue was plain,
easy, and natural, and not one single joke in it from the beginning to
the end: besides, sir, there was one scene of tender melancholy
conversation--enough to have melted a heart of stone; and yet they
damned it--and they damned themselves; for they shall have no more of
mine.

_Wit_. Take pity on the town, sir.

_Mar. jun_. I! No, sir, no. I'll write no more. No more; unless
I am forced to it.

_Luck_. That's no easy thing, Marplay.

_Mar. jun_. Yes, sir. Odes, odes, a man may be obliged to write
those, you know.

_Luck_, and _Wit_. Ha, ha, ha! that's true indeed.

_Luck_. But about my tragedy, Mr Marplay.

_Mar. jun_. I believe my father is at the playhouse: if you
please, we will read it now; but I must call on a young lady
first--Hey, who's there? Is my footman there? Order my chair to the
door. Your servant, gentlemen.--_Caro vien_. [_Exit, singing_.