MRS. DANGLE. Because his jest is always at the expense of his friend. [_Aside_.] DANGLE. But, Sir Fretful, have you sent your play to the managers yet?—or can I be of any service to you? SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY. No, no, I thank you: I believe the piece had sufficient recommendation with it.—I thank you though.—I sent it to the manager of Covent Garden Theatre this morning. SNEER. I should have thought now, that it might have been cast (as the actors call it) better at Drury Lane. SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY. O Lud! no—never send a play there while I live—hark’ee! [_Whispers_ SNEER.] SNEER. Writes himself!—I know he does. SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY. I say nothing—I take away from no man’s merit—am hurt at no man’s good fortune—I say nothing.—But this I will say—through all my knowledge of life, I have observed—that there is not a passion so strongly rooted in the human heart as envy. SNEER. I believe you have reason for what you say, indeed. SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY. Besides—I can tell you it is not always so safe to leave a play in the hands of those who write themselves. SNEER. What, they may steal from them, hey, my dear Plagiary? SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY. Steal!—to be sure they may; and, egad, serve your best thoughts as gypsies do stolen children, disfigure them to make ’em pass for their own. SNEER. But your present work is a sacrifice to Melpomene, and he, you know, never— SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY. That’s no security: a dexterous plagiarist may do anything. Why, sir, for aught I know, he might take out some of the best things in my tragedy, and put them into his own comedy. SNEER. That might be done, I dare be sworn. SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY. And then, if such a person gives you the least hint or assistance, he is devilish apt to take the merit of the whole— DANGLE. If it succeeds. SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY. Ay, but with regard to this piece, I think I can hit that gentleman, for I can safely swear he never read it. SNEER. I’ll tell you how you may hurt him more. SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY. How? SNEER. Swear he wrote it. SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY. Plague on’t now, Sneer, I shall take it ill!—I believe you want to take away my character as an author. SNEER. Then I am sure you ought to be very much obliged to me. SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY. Hey!—sir!— DANGLE. Oh, you know, he never means what he says. SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY. Sincerely then—do you like the piece? SNEER. Wonderfully! SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY. But come, now, there must be something that you think might be mended, hey?—Mr. Dangle, has nothing struck you? DANGLE. Why, faith, it is but an ungracious thing for the most part, to— SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY. With most authors it is just so, indeed; they are in general strangely tenacious! But, for my part, I am never so well pleased as when a judicious critic points out any defect to me; for what is the purpose of showing a work to a friend, if you don’t mean to profit by his opinion?