_Sir Pat._ An Irish Man,--poh, what the Devil shall I say now? (_Aside_) No my Life, I am no Irishman at all, not I upon my Honour--but my Mother was one--and so I call that my Country sometimes out of a Joke--that's all--I an Irishman--no, no--no, I'faith you may know by my Tongue that I am no Irishman. _Har._ O then it is your Mother that was an Irishman? _Sir Pat._ Yes, Madam, she was born and bred in Ireland all the Days of her Life, but she was educated in England. _Heart._ Ha, ha, ha, this is more than one in Reason could have expected. This Fellow is more diverting and more blundering than his Countryman in the Committee. [_Aside_] _Har._ See, here come Mr. Nibble and Mr. Trifle in warm debate; prithee let us leave them to themselves and go see how my Lady and Canker have agreed in their Judgments about this New Play. _Sir Pat._ With all my Heart, Madam; for really I am tired with these two Gentlemen before they come near us, they are so very silly--(_Pushing between Harriet and Heartly_) I beg Pardon, Mr. Heartly, but I must do the Lady the Honour to give her the Acceptation of my Hand. I hope you will excuse my bashfullness, Madam, that I did not do it sooner. _Har._ Sir Patrick, you are the most courteous well bred Knight that ever broke Spear in a Lady's Defence. _Sir Pat._ Faith I am of your Opinion in that, Madam, for I think I am a clever loose Fellow. (_Exeunt_) (_Enter_ NIBBLE _and_ TRIFLE) _Trif._ Dear Nibble, don't let you and I quarrel which we certainly must if you persist in crying down so admired a Piece. For Dullness seize me if I don't defend it to the last Extremity of critical Obstinancy. _Nib._ Dear Tim: don't call it critical, but fashionable Obstinancy, for you know very well that Judgment and you are old Antagonists. _Trif._ Ha, ha, ha, give me your Hand for that, Nibble; faith that was not said amiss--But as I have some regard for you, don't persist in shewing your weakness lest you oblige me to draw my parts upon you, and if I do, expect no Quarter; by all that's witty, I'll pink the Midriff of your Ignorance as a friendly cure to your sickly Understanding. _Nib._ Tim Trifle, I defy your Parts; they are as blunt and as dull as a Welch Pedant's. I do and shall persist in, asserting to the last Extremity of my critical Judgment that the Piece has glaring Faults--monstrous. _Trif._ What Faults? What Faults? Prithee name one! _Nib._ Why in the first place I insist upon it, and I will prove it up to mathematical Demonstration, that the Title of it is quite expotic. _Trif._ Expotic? _Nib._ Ay, immensely expotic! so expotic that the Play ought to have been hissed for it. The Suspicious Husband! Is not that an egregious Error? I am sure every Person who has the least Taste of the Drama must allow it to be an unpardonable Fault--quite a Misnomer--absolutely expotic. _Trif._ Now by Aristotle's Beard, I think there could not have been so happy a Title found out of the Alphabet.