I beg pardon. BEVER. Sir THOMAS. The manager of that house (who you know is a writer himself), finding all the anonymous things he produced (indeed some of them wretched enough, and very unworthy of him) placed to his account by the public, is determined to exhibit no more without knowing the name of the author. BEVER. Now, upon my promise (for I appear to patronize the play) to announce the author before the curtain draws up, Robinson Crufoe is advertised for this evening. BEVER. Oh, then, you will acknowledge the piece to be your's? Lord, Sir Thomas, it will never gain credit: so compleat a production the work of a stripling! Befides, Sir, as the merit is your's, why rob yourfelf of the glory? Sir THOMAS. Sir THOMAS. I am entirely indifferent to that. BEVER. Then why take the trouble? Sir THOMAS. My fondness for letters, and love of my country. Besides, dear Dick, though the pauci & feletti, the chosen few, know the full value of a performance like this, yet the ignorant, the profane, (by much the majority,) will be apt to think it an occupation ill-fuited to my time of life. BEVER. Their cenfure is praise. Sir THOMAS. Doubtless. But, indeed, my principal motive is my friendship for you. You are now a candidate for literary honours, and I am determin'd to fix your fame on an immoveable bafis. BEVER. You are most exceffively kind; but there is fomething fo difingenuous in stealing reputation from another man Idle punctilio! Sir THOMAS. BEVER. It puts me fo in mind of the daw in the fable Sir THOMAS. Come, come, dear Dick, I won't fuffer your modesty to murder your fame. But the company will fufpect fomething; we will join them, and proclaim you the author. There, keep the copy; to you I confign it for ever; it fhall be a fecret to lateft pofterity. You will be fmother'd with praise by our friends; they fhall all in their bark to the playhouse, and there Attendant fail, Purfue the triumph, and partake the gale. END OF THE SECOND ACT. ACT III. SCENE CONTINUES. Enter Bever Reading. SO ends the first act. Come, now for the fecond. "Act the fecond, fhewing"-the coxcomb has prefaced every act with an argument too, in humble imitation, I warrant, of Monf. Diderot"fhewing the fatal effects of disobedience to parents;" with, I fuppofe, the diverting scene of a gibbet; an entertaining fubject for comedy. And the blockhead is as prolix-every scene as long as a homily. Let's fee; how does this end? "Exit Crufoe, and enter fome favages, dancing a faraband." There's no bearing this abominable trash. [Enter Juliet.] So, Madam; thanks to your advice and direction, I am got into a fine fituation. JULIET. What is the matter now, Mr. Bever? BEVER. The Robinson Crusoe. JULIET. Oh, the play that is to be acted to-night. How fecret you were? Who in the world would have guess'd you was the author? Me, Madam! BEVER. JULIET. Your title is odd; but to a genius every subject is good. BEVER. You are inclined to be pleasant. JULIET. Within they have been all prodigious loud in the praise of your piece; but I think my uncle rather more eager than any. D BEVER. BEVER. He has reason; for fatherly fondness goes far. Nay, Juliet, this is too much; you know it is none of my play. JULIET. Whose then? BEVER. Your uncle's. JULIET. My uncle's! then how, in the name of wonder, came you to adopt it? BEVER. At his earnest request. I may be a fool; but remember, Madam, you are the cause. JULIET. This is ftrange; but I can't conceive what his motive could be. BEVER. His motive is obvious enough; to screen himfelf from the infamy of being the author. Why, what could I do? he in a manner com pell'd me, BEVER. Glad of it! why, I tell you, 'tis the most dull, tedious, melancholy So much the better! zounds! fo, I suppose, you would say if I was going to be hang'd. Do you call this a mark of you friendship? JULIET. Ah, Bever, Bever! you are a miserable politician. Do you know, now, that this is the luckieft incident that ever occurr'd? Indeed! BEVER. JULIET. It could not have been better laid, had we planned it ourselves. BEVER. You will pardon my want of conception: but these are riddles JULIET. That at prefent I have not time to explain. But what makes you loit'ring here? Paft fix o'clock, as I live! Why, your play is begun; run, D 2 run, |