“SABLE.  Ah! pox take some of our cits, the first thing after their death is to take care of their birth—­let him bear a pair of stockings, he is the first of his family that ever wore one....  And you, Mr. Blockhead, I warrant you have not call’d at Mr. Pestle’s the apothecary:  will that fellow never pay me?  I stand bound for all the poison in that starving murderer’s shop:  he serves me just as Dr. Quibus did, who promised to write a treatise against water-gruel, a healthy slop that has done me more injury than all the Faculty:  look you now, you are all upon the sneer, let me have none but downright stupid countenances.  I’ve a good mind to turn you all off, and take people out of the playhouse; but hang them, they are as ignorant of their parts as you are of yours....  Ye stupid rogues, whom I have picked out of the rubbish of mankind, and fed for your eminent worthlessness, attend, and know that I speak you this moment stiff and immutable to all sense of noise, mirth or laughter. [Makes mouths at them as they pass by him to bring them to a constant countenance.] So, they are pretty well—­pretty well.”

[Exit.

* * * * *

When the stage is clear Lord Brumpton and his servant Trusty enter.  The former has wakened from his cataleptic trance, as the faithful Trusty watched beside him, and is horrified to learn of Lady Brumpton’s lack of grief.  But hush; he will conceal himself, for here comes my lady, accompanied by her woman and confidant, Mistress Tattleaid.

* * * * *

“Enter WIDOW and TATTLEAID, meeting and running to each other.

“WIDOW.  Oh, Tattleaid, his and our hour has come!

“TAT.  I always said by his church yard cough, you’d bury him, and still you were impatient.

“WIDOW.  Nay, thou hast ever been my comfort, my confident, my friend, and my servant; and now I’ll reward thy pains; for tho’ I scorn the whole sex of fellows I’ll give them hopes for thy sake; every smile, every frown, every gesture, humour, caprice and whimsy of mine shall be gold to thee, girl; thou shalt feel all the sweets and wealth of being a fine rich widow’s woman.  Oh! how my head runs my first year out, and jumps to all the joys of widowhood!  If thirteen months hence a friend should haul one to a play one has a mind to see,[A] what pleasure t’will be when my Lady Brumpton’s footman called (who kept a place for that very purpose) to make a sudden insurrection of fine wigs in the pit and side-boxes.  Then, with a pretty sorrow in one’s face, and a willing blush for being stared at, one ventures to look round, and bow to one of one’s own quality.  Thus [very directly] to a snug pretending fellow of no fortune.  Thus [as scarce seeing him] to one that writes lampoons.  Thus [fearfully] to one who really loves.  Thus [looking down] to one woman-acquaintance, from box to box, thus [with looks differently familiar], and when one has done one’s part, observe the actors do theirs, but with my mind fixed not on those I look at, but those that look at me.  Then the serenades—­the lovers! [A query—­if the theatres were patronised only by those who looked solely at the stage, what would be the size of the audiences?]