And now the Curtain was drawn to show a dark Room where some one was playing a Pack of Cards; above him some dozen Clouds were trimm'd with Black, and there was a new Moon something decay'd.

And then for a moment I was environ'd by these painted Scenes and lived among them even as I sat in the Pitt: now my Lord All-Pride leads Doll Common away, and the Scene is drawn to show a Chamber of Tortures where he says, Do you like this Ribbon (pointing to a Whip), this Cutt of the Sleeve (pointing to a Knife), this Stocking (pointing to a hanging Rope)? And I was a Child again, watching the bright World.

But the Spell broke when at this Juncture some Gallants jumped from the Pitt onto the Stage and behaved as so many Merry-Andrews among the Actors, which reduced all to Confusion. I laugh'd with them also, for I like to make Merry among the Fallen and there is pleasure to be had in the Observation of the Deformity of Things. Thus when the Play resumed after the Disturbance, it was only to excite my Ridicule with its painted Fichons, wicked Hypocrisies and villainous Customs, all depicted with a little pert Jingle of Words and a rambling kind of Mirth to make the Insipidnesse and Sterility pass. There was no pleasure in seeing it, and nothing to burden the Memory after: like a voluntarie before a Lesson it was absolutely forgotten, nothing to be remembered or repeated.

When this Masquerade was complete, the prattler Vanbrugghe led us on to the Grey Bear tavern, where the whimzey-headed and the slender-witted and the shallow-brained come to sip their Brandy and make their Chit-chat on what they have just view'd. And so sir, he cried as we waited for the Tapster, how did you like the Play?

I have forgot it, sir.

So soon?

I asked him what he said, for there was such a mish-mash of Conversation around us that I could scarcely understand him -the frequenters of Taverns have Hearts of Curd and Souls of Milk Sop, but they have Mouths like Cannons which stink of Tobacco and their own foul Breath as they cry What News? What's a Clock? Methinks it's Cold to Day! Thus is it a Hospital For Fools: DRAMATIS PERSONAE John Vanbrugghe: An Architect in Fashion Nicholas Dyer: A Nothing, a Neighbour Sir Philip Bareface: A Courtier Moneytrap: A Jobber Various Gentlemen of the Town, Rakes, Bullies and Servants vannbrugghe. (Taking up his glass) I said, sir, forgot so soon? dyer. (Sits down) There was nothing that I recall save that the Sunne was a Round flat shining Disc and the Thunder was a Noise from a Drum or a Pan. vannbrugghe. (Aside) What a Child is this! (To Dyer) These are only our Devices, and are like the Paint of our Painted Age. dyer. But in Meditation the Sunne is a vast and glorious Body, and Thunder is the most forcible and terrible Phaenomenon: it is not to be mocked, for the highest Passion is Terrour. And why was it, too, that this Scribbler mock'd Religion? It is a perilous Case. vannbrugghe. Amen to that. I pray the Lord. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! But let me tell you plainly, sir, this Scribbler was just; Religion is only the quaint Leger-de-main of strong-pated Statesmen who, to overawe the Capriciousness of the giddy Multitude, did forge the Image of some Punisher of all Humane actions. dyer. (Aside) A small rational Sir Fopling this! vannbrugghe. Have I told you this Story? When a Widow, hearing in a Sermon of the Crucifixion, came to the Priest after, dropped him a Courtsie and asked him how long ago this sad Accident happened?

When he answered, about 15 or 16 hundred Years ago, she began to be comforted and said, Then by the grace of God it may not be true.

(Laughing). dyer. (In a low tone) Interest is the God of your World, who may be sacrificed to Hypocrisie. vannbrugghe. (Aside) I find he knows me! (To Dyer) What was that? dyer. It was nothing, nothing at all.

There is an uneasy Silence between them vannbrugghe. And how do your Churches, Mr Dyer? dyer. (In alarm) They do very well, sir. vannbrugghe. You build in Greenwich next? dyer. (Wiping sweat from his brow) I build first in Bloomsbury, and then in Greenwich. vannbrugghe. How interesting. (He pauses) The Play was well received, was it not? dyer. The Audience had so humble an Opinion of itself tonight that it thought what pleased the People of Fashion ought also to please it. vannbrugghe. And yet there was that to please all: the Language was enrich'd with beautiful Conceptions and inimitable Similitudes.

(He stares at Dyer) Are you not of my Mind in this at least? dyer. No, I am not of your Mind, for the Dialogue was fitted up with too much Facility. Words must be pluckt from Obscurity and nourished with Care, improved with Art and corrected with Application.

Labour and Time are the Instruments in the perfection of all Work. (Aside) Including churches. vannbrugghe. (Coughs in his glass) Here is a Speech that would fright me into Nothing! (To the Boy) Fill some Brandy, sirrah! (To Dyer) But the greatest Art is to speak agreeably about the smallest Things, to spread a general evenness of Humour and a natural decency of Style. dyer. (Looking at him scornfully) So that is why Wits swarm like Egypt's Frogs. If I were a Writer now, I would wish to thicken the water of my Discourse so that it was no longer easy or familiar. I would chuse a huge lushious Style! vannbrugghe. (Interrupting) Ah the music of Erudition, it is unimaginable to weaker Wits. dyer. (Ignoring him) I would imploy outlandish Phrases and fantasti-call Terms, thus to restore Terrour, Reverence and Desire like wild Lightning. vannbrugghe. (Offended) I do not wish for meer Words: I wish for Matter. dyer. And what is matter, according to the Greshamites, but blind Attomes? vannbrugghe. (Laughing) Well let us drop that Matter.

They stand again without speaking, only drinking vannbrugghe. (Inclining his head) See this Man's manner as he walked by me: he has lately been in the powdering Tub of Affliction and it has affected his Step. (He calls out and smiles at the Man) Sir Philip, Sir Philip! (Aside to Dyer) His sword is tyed as high as the Waist-band of his Breeches, do you see, and it has no more Motion when he walks than a Two-foot Rule stuck into the Apron of a Carpenter. (To Sir Philip Bareface) You have been to Court, I hear, what's done? sir philip. Extraordinary News, I do assure you. dyer. (Aside) Only when you are hanged, sirrah. sir philip. The events in Silesia have caused great Consternation: I never approved of our Affairs there after my Lord Peterborough was called away. It is true my Lord Galway is a brave General and a Man of excellent Parts (he breaks off to look around cautiously) but what, then, if Luck is not on his side? (He whispers now) Did you read of my Lord in the Spectator! dyer. (Aside) I have seen Mr Addison among the Buggerantoes in Vinegar Yard: truly he is a Man of Parts. sir philip. (Still whispering) I see nothing ahead but endless Broils and Divisions. But here is Master Money trap who will tell us more News. Pray Sir (addressing him) what Intelligence from the City? moneytrap. There are those frighted at the News from Silesia. But I can tell the secret of that: Stocks may fall, but I say buy. vannbrugghe and sir philip. (In unison) Buy? moneytrap. Yes, buy, for they fall only by degrees to rise further.

Yesterday South Sea stock was 95 one quarter and Bank was 130! sir philip. This is strange News indeed.

CHORUS OF GENTLEMEN AND SERVANTS. What News is this? What News is this? (And then they sing)

Bankrupts, Elopements, Thefts and Lotteries Strange News from Petersburg and Flanders, Fast Mails from Frankfurt and Saxony Bring Chit-chat, Jobbing, Venery and Slanders.

Exeunt Sir Philip and Money trap, in conversation. Vannbrugghe and Dyer talk apart. dyer. (Having listen'd attentively to the Song) Was I not saying that Poetry is now sunk and miserably debas'd? It is as low a Thing now as the music of Italian Opera, and not even as Sweet as the Songs we heard in Childhood. For the best Authors, like the greatest Buildings, are the most ancient: this is but a cold Age of the World, filled with a generall Imperfection. vannbrugghe. No, no, the Fables and Religions of the Ancient World are well nigh consum'd: they have served the Poet and the Architect long enough, and it is now high time to dismiss them. We must copy the present Age, even in our Songs. dyer. (Aside) His Eyes and Countenance show a great Alteration, for this Matter touches him keenly. (To Vannbrugghe) If we copy the present Age, as you put it, we will be like those people who judge only by Resemblance and are therefore most delighted with Pictures of their Acquaintance. We will be like the Greshamites who will deal only with that which they know or see or touch: and so your Playwrights catch the Audience as Woodcocks and Widgeons are caught, by a lowd Bell and a greasie Light. vannbrugghe. (Aside) He has a solemn Air, but still he mocks me. (To Dyer) Well said, sir, you have brought yourself off cleverly. And so you would lugg down old Aristotle, Scaliger and all their Commentators from the high Shelf, and let the Moths flutter round your Gabardeen, so that you can furnish Prose with Episodes, Narrations, Deliberations, Didacticks, Pathetics, Monologues, Figures, Intervals and Catastrophes? dyer. (Aside) Methinks he strives to shine in his Talk the more to Insult my own. (To Vannbrugghe) I will say this only: that there is scarcely any Art or Faculty wherein we do not come short of the Ancients. vannbrugghe. (Spitting upon the floor) But the bounds of the Mind are yet unknown: we form our Judgments too much on what has been done without knowing what might be done. Originals must soar into the region of Liberty. dyer. And then fall down, since they have Wings made only of Wax.