VAL. You are witty, you rogue. I shall want your help. I’ll have you learn to make couplets to tag the ends of acts. D’ye hear? Get the maids to Crambo in an evening, and learn the knack of rhyming: you may arrive at the height of a song sent by an unknown hand, or a chocolate-house lampoon. JERE. But, sir, is this the way to recover your father’s favour? Why, Sir Sampson will be irreconcilable. If your younger brother should come from sea, he’d never look upon you again. You’re undone, sir; you’re ruined; you won’t have a friend left in the world if you turn poet. Ah, pox confound that Will’s coffee-house: it has ruined more young men than the Royal Oak lottery. Nothing thrives that belongs to’t. The man of the house would have been an alderman by this time, with half the trade, if he had set up in the city. For my part, I never sit at the door that I don’t get double the stomach that I do at a horse race. The air upon Banstead-Downs is nothing to it for a whetter; yet I never see it, but the spirit of famine appears to me, sometimes like a decayed porter, worn out with pimping, and carrying _billet doux_ and songs: not like other porters, for hire, but for the jests’ sake. Now like a thin chairman, melted down to half his proportion, with carrying a poet upon tick, to visit some great fortune; and his fare to be paid him like the wages of sin, either at the day of marriage, or the day of death. VAL. Very well, sir; can you proceed? JERE. Sometimes like a bilked bookseller, with a meagre terrified countenance, that looks as if he had written for himself, or were resolved to turn author, and bring the rest of his brethren into the same condition. And lastly, in the form of a worn-out punk, with verses in her hand, which her vanity had preferred to settlements, without a whole tatter to her tail, but as ragged as one of the muses; or as if she were carrying her linen to the paper-mill, to be converted into folio books of warning to all young maids, not to prefer poetry to good sense, or lying in the arms of a needy wit, before the embraces of a wealthy fool. SCENE II. VALENTINE, SCANDAL, JEREMY. SCAN. What, Jeremy holding forth? VAL. The rogue has (with all the wit he could muster up) been declaiming against wit. SCAN. Ay? Why, then, I’m afraid Jeremy has wit: for wherever it is, it’s always contriving its own ruin. JERE. Why, so I have been telling my master, sir: Mr. Scandal, for heaven’s sake, sir, try if you can dissuade him from turning poet. SCAN. Poet! He shall turn soldier first, and rather depend upon the outside of his head than the lining. Why, what the devil, has not your poverty made you enemies enough? Must you needs shew your wit to get more? JERE. Ay, more indeed: for who cares for anybody that has more wit than himself?