_Wit_. Why don't you marry then--for I suppose you are not mad enough to have any engagement with a poor mistress? _Luck_. Even so, faith; and so heartily that I would not change her for the widow of a Croesus. _Wit_. Now thou art undone, indeed. Matrimony clenches ruin beyond retrieval. What unfortunate stars wert thou born under? Was it not enough to follow those nine ragged jades the muses, but you must fasten on some earth-born mistress as poor as them? _Mar. jun_. [_within_]. Order my chairman to call on me at St James's.--No, let them stay. _Wit_. Heyday, whom the devil have we here? _Luck_. The young captain, sir; no less a person, I assure you. SCENE VI.--LUCKLESS, WITMORE, MARPLAY, jun. _Mar. jun_. Mr Luckless, I kiss your hands--Sir, I am your most obedient humble servant; you see, Mr Luckless, what power you have over me. I attend your commands, though several persons of quality have staid at court for me above this hour. _Luck_. I am obliged to you--I have a tragedy for your house, Mr Marplay. _Mar. jun_. Ha! if you will send it to me, I will give you my opinion of it; and if I can make any alterations in it that will be for its advantage, I will do it freely. _Wit_. Alterations, sir? _Mar. jun_. Yes, sir, alterations--I will maintain it. Let a play be never so good, without alteration it will do nothing. _Wit_. Very odd indeed! _Mar. jun_. Did you ever write, sir? _Wit_. No, sir, I thank Heaven. _Mar. jun_. Oh! your humble servant--your very humble servant, sir. When you write yourself, you will find the necessity of alterations. Why, sir, would you guess that I had altered Shakspeare? _Wit_. Yes, faith, sir, no one sooner. _Mar. jun_. Alack-a-day! Was you to see the plays when they are brought to us--a parcel of crude undigested stuff. We are the persons, sir, who lick them into form--that mould them into shape. The poet make the play indeed! the colourman might be as well said to make the picture, or the weaver the coat. My father and I, sir, are a couple of poetical tailors. When a play is brought us, we consider it as a tailor does his coat: we cut it, sir--we cut it; and let me tell you we have the exact measure of the town; we know how to fit their taste. The poets, between you and me, are a pack of ignorant---- _Wit_. Hold, hold, sir. This is not quite so civil to Mr Luckless; besides, as I take it, you have done the town the honour of writing yourself.