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But then it's as full of Drollery as ever it can hold: 'tis like an Orange stuck with Cloves, as for conceipt. Come, where are you? This Scene will make you die with laughing, if it be well acted: it is a Scene of sheer Wit, without any mixture in the world, I gad. [Reads—
Enter Prince Pretty-man, and Tom Thimble his Taylor.
This, Sirs, might properly enough be call'd a prize of Wit; for you shall see 'em come in upon one another snip snap, hit for hit, as fast as can be. First one speaks, then presently t'other's upon him slap, with a Repartee; then he at him again, dash with a new conceipt: and so eternally, eternally, I gad, till they go quite off the Stage. [Goes to call the Players.
Smi. What a plague, does this Fop mean by his snip snap, hit for hit, and dash?
Johns. Mean? why, he never meant any thing in's life: what dost talk of meaning for?
Enter Bayes.
Bayes. Why don't you come in?
Enter Prince Pretty-man and Tom. Thimble.
Pret. But pr'ythee, Tom Thimble, why wilt thou needs marry? If nine Taylors make but one man; and one woman cannot be satisfi'd with nine men: what work art thou cutting our here for thy self, trow we?
Bayes. Good.
Thim. Why, an't please your Highness, if I can't make up all the work I cut out, I shan't want Journey-men to help me, I warrant you.
Bayes. Good again.
Pret. I am afraid thy Journey-men, though, Tom, won't work by the day, but by the night.
Bayes. Good still.
Thim. However, if my wife sits but cross-leg'd, as I do, there will be no great danger: not half so much as when I trusted you for your Coronation-suit.
Bayes. Very good, i'faith.
Pret. Why, the times then liv'd upon trust; it was thefashion.
