As change thus circulates throughout the nation, Some plays may justly call for alteration; At least to draw some slender covering o’er, That graceless wit, which was too bare before Those writers well and wisely use their pens, Who turn our wantons into Magdalens; And howsoever wicked wits revile ’em, We hope to find in you their stage asylum. ACT I. SCENE I.—_The Hall of an Inn_. _Enter TOM FASHION and LORY, POSTILION following with a portmanteau_. TOM FASHION. Lory, pay the postboy, and take the portmanteau. LORY. [_Aside to TOM FASHION_.] Faith, sir, we had better let the postboy take the portmanteau and pay himself. TOM FASHION. [_Aside to LORY_.] Why, sure, there’s something left in it! LORY. Not a rag, upon my honour, sir! We ate the last of your wardrobe at New Malton—and, if we had had twenty miles further to go, our next meal must have been of the cloak-bag. TOM FASHION. Why, ’sdeath, it appears full! LORY. Yes, sir—I made bold to stuff it with hay, to save appearances, and look like baggage. TOM FASHION. [_Aside_.] What the devil shall I do?—[_Aloud_.] Hark’ee, boy, what’s the chaise? POSTILION. Thirteen shillings, please your honour. TOM FASHION. Can you give me change for a guinea? POSTILION. Oh, yes, sir. LORY. [_Aside_.] So, what will he do now?—[_Aloud_.] Lord, sir, you had better let the boy be paid below. TOM FASHION. Why, as you say, Lory, I believe it will be as well. LORY. Yes, yes, I’ll tell them to discharge you below, honest friend. POSTILION. Please your honour, there are the turnpikes too. TOM FASHION. Ay, ay, the turnpikes by all means. POSTILION. And I hope your honour will order me something for myself. TOM FASHION. To be sure; bid them give you a crown. LORY. Yes, yes—my master doesn’t care what you charge them—so get along, you— POSTILION. And there’s the ostler, your honour. LORY. Psha! damn the ostler!—would you impose upon the gentleman’s generosity?—[_Pushes him out_.] A rascal, to be so cursed ready with his change! TOM FASHION. Why, faith, Lory, he had nearly posed me. LORY. Well, sir, we are arrived at Scarborough, not worth a guinea! I hope you’ll own yourself a happy man—you have outlived all your cares. TOM FASHION. How so, sir? LORY. Why, you have nothing left to take care of. TOM FASHION. Yes, sirrah, I have myself and you to take care of still. LORY. Sir, if you could prevail with somebody else to do that for you, I fancy we might both fare the better for it. But now, sir, for my Lord Foppington, your elder brother. TOM FASHION. Damn my eldest brother. LORY. With all my heart; but get him to redeem your annuity, however. Look you, sir; you must wheedle him, or you must starve. TOM FASHION. Look you, sir; I would neither wheedle him, nor starve. LORY. Why, what will you do, then? TOM FASHION. Cut his throat, or get someone to do it for me.