advised the Fool against it. But he persisted. He said he was sure it would be better liked than the modern dull way of Prologue Writing which for many years has been only to give the Audience an Historical Account of the Comic Stoick or the Tragic Buskin, or a dull detail of the piece they were to see with the Age and Circumstances of the Author, and how long he was writing his Play. Now, says Macklin, my Prologue, Sir, if it has nothing else, it has Novelty on its side; and as Bays says it will elevate and surprize and all that. And if they don't laugh at it as a good Prologue, I am sure, says he, they will laugh at me for its being a bad one—so that either way they will have their Joke.

Omnes. Ha! ha! ha!

Smart. Ay, ay, there I think he was right; for the Audience will laugh, I make no doubt of it, but it will be at him.

Omnes. Right! Right!

Snarle. So I told him but he would persist.

Smart. But Mr. Snarlewit, how will he answer to the Critics his making the Stage represent the Pit?

Snarle. Psha! psha! he is below Criticism; they will never trouble themselves about that. Besides I think he may be defended very justly in that, for if the Stage has a Right to represent Palaces and Countries, nay, and Heaven and Hell, surely it may be allowed to exhibit the Pit.

Smart. Do you know anything of the Farce?

Snarle. Yes, I have read it.

Smart. It is a very odd Title, a Bone for the Lawyers; who is the Author, pray? Is it known?

Snarle. Why Macklin gives out that some Gentleman, a Friend of his, has made him a Present of it, but I shrewdly suspect it to be his own.

Rattle. Whose! Macklin's?

Snarle. Ay!

Rattle. Why, can he write?

Snarle. Write? Ay, and damnably too, I assure you, ha! ha! He writ a Tragedy this Winter, but so merry a Tragedy was never seen since the first night of Tom Thumb the Great.

Smart. I was at it and a merry Tragedy it was and a merry Audience!

Snarle. I never laughed so heartily at a Play in my Life; if his Farce has half so much Fun in it as his Tragedy had, I'll engage it succeeds.

Smart. Come, come. There was some tolerable Things in his Tragedy.

Snarle. Psha! psha! Stuff! Stuff! damned Stuff! Pray Sir, what do you think of Lady Catherine Gordon's Letter to her Father, Lord Huntley, that begun honoured Papa, hoping you are in good Health as I am at this present Writing. There was a Stile for Tragedy!

Omnes. Ha! ha! ha!

Smart. Well, I wish his Farce may succeed, however.

Snarle. O so do I upon my word, Sir.—I have a great Regard for Macklin—but to be sure he is a very egregious Blockhead ever to think of writing; that I believe everybody will allow.

Omnes. Ay, ay, there's nobody will dispute that with you, Mr. Snarlewit.

Snarle. Notwithstanding he is such a Blockhead, I assure you, Mr. Smart, I have an Esteem for him.

Smart. Do you know what Characters or Business he has in his Farce?

Snarle. I think his chief Character is an old Fellow, one Sir Isaac Skinflint, who is eaten up with Diseases, and who promises everybody Legacies, but dreads making a Will, for the Instant he does that he thinks he shall die.

Rattle. That's a very common Character; my Uncle was just such a superstitious Wretch.

Snarle. And the Business of the Farce is to induce this old Fellow to disinherit all his Relations, except a Nephew who wants to be his sole Heir, which according to the Rules of Farce, you may suppose it to be brought about by a Footman who upon these Occasions always has more Wit than his Master.

Smart. But when is the Prologue to begin?

Snarle. Why as soon as the Curtain is drawn up you will see the Stage disposed in the Form of a Pit, and that you are to imagine the Prologue, and when they let the Curtain down, why then you must suppose it to be ended.

Smart. I wonder what the Audience will say when it is over.

Snarle. What? Why some will stare and wonder what the Actors have been about, and will still be expecting the Prologue; others will chuckle at their Disappointment, and cry—they knew how it would be; and some will judiciously observe—what better could be expected from a Prologue to be written and spoken by the Pit. But upon the whole, I dare say, ninety nine in a hundred will conclude it to be a parcell of low Stuff—and that its only Merit was the quaintness of the Conceit [which] raised the People's Curiosity and helped to fill the House; and so ends the Prologue—and now let us make a Noise for the Farce.

(The Curtain is let down)

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

for

A WILL AND NO WILL:

OR A BONE FOR THE LAWYERS

ACT I

(Enter SHARK and LUCY—meeting)

Shark. Good morrow, Lucy.

Lucy. Good morrow, Shark.

Shark. Give me a Kiss, Hussy. (Kisses her)

Lucy. Psha—prithee don't touzle and mouzle a Body so; can't you salute without rumpling one's Tucker and spoiling one's Things? I hate to be tumbled. (Adjusting herself)

Shark. Ay, as much as you do Flattery or a looking Glass.

Lucy. Well, what's your Business this Morning? Have you any Message?

Shark. Yes, the old one: my Master's Duty to his gracious Uncle, Sir Isaac Skinflint, and he hopes he rested well last night—that is, to translate it out of the Language of Compliment into that of Sincerity, he hopes the old Huncks has made his Will, my Master his sole Heir, that he has had a very bad Night, and is within a few Hours of giving up the Ghost and paying a Visit to his old friend Belzebub.

Lucy. We were afraid he would have gone off last night; he has had two of his Epileptic Feasts.

Shark. Why sure the old Cannibal would not offer to make his Exit without making his Will; that would ruin us all.

Lucy. Nay it would be a considerable Loss to me should he die without a Will: for you know he has promised me a handsome Legacy.

Shark. And so he has to Thousands, my Dear; why, Child, I don't believe he has spent thirty Shillings upon himself in Food for these thirty years; all gratis, all upon the Spunge. Ay, ay, let Sir Isaac Skinflint alone for mumping a Dinner. There has not been a Churchwarden's or an Overseer's Feast these twenty years but what he has been at. And when he is not at these Irish meals, he is preying upon his Friends and Acquaintances, and promises them all Legacies. "Well," he says, after he has filled his Paunch,—"I shall not forget you. I shall remember all my Friends. I have you down in my Will." Then he claps his hand upon the Servant's Head as he is going out—"I shall think of you too, John. You are my old Friend"—but the Devil a Louse he gives him; an old gouty Rogue! I'll warrant the old Hypocrite has promised more Legacies than the Bank of England is able to pay. Has he made any mention lately of his Nephew and Niece in the Country, Sir Roger Bumper and his Sister?

Lucy. He expects them in Town today, or tomorrow at farthest, and I believe