_Q. Ign_. Enough, enough; and is it possible That they can hold alliance with my friends Of Sadler's-wells? then are they foes indeed To Common Sense, and I'm indebted to 'em. Take back their hostages, for they may need 'em; And take this play, and bid 'em forthwith act it; There is not in it either head or tail. _Harl_. Madam, they will most gratefully receive it. The character you give would recommend it, Though it had come from a less powerful hand. _Q. Ign_. The Modish Couple is its name; myself Stood gossip to it, and I will support This play against the town. _I Att_. Madam, the queen Of Common Sense advances with her powers. _Q. Ign_. Draw up my men, I'll meet her as I ought; This day shall end the long dispute between us. _Enter_ Queen COMMON SENSE _with a_ Drummer. _Fust_. Hey-day! where's Common Sense's army? _Promp_. Sir, I have sent all over the town, and could not get one soldier for her, except that poor drummer, who was lately turned out of an Irish regiment. _Drum_. Upon my shoul but I have been a drummer these twenty years, master, and have seen no wars yet; and I was willing to learn a little of my trade before I died. _Fust_. Hush, sirrah! don't you be witty; that is not in your part. _Drum_. I don't know what is in my part, sir; but T desire to have something in it; for I have been tired of doing nothing a great while. _Fust_. Silence! _Q. C. S_. What is the reason, madam, that you bring These hostile arms into my peaceful realm? _Q. Ign. To ease your subjects from that dire oppression They groan beneath, which longer to support Unable, they invited my redress. _Q. C. S_. And can my subjects then complain of wrong? Base and ungrateful! what is their complaint? _Q. Ign_. They say you do impose a tax of thought Upon their minds, which they're too weak to bear. _Q. C. S_. Wouldst thou from thinking then absolve mankind? _Q. Ign_. I would, for thinking only makes men wretched; And happiness is still the lot of fools. Why should a wise man wish to think, when thought Still hurts his pride; in spite of all his art, Malicious fortune, by a lucky train Of accidents, shall still defeat his schemes, And set the greatest blunderer above him. _Q. C. S_. Urgest thou that against me, which thyself Has been the wicked cause of? Which thy power, Thy artifice, thy favourites have done? Could Common Sense bear universal sway, No fool could ever possibly be great. _Q. Ign_. What is this folly, which you try to paint In colours so detestable and black? Is't not the general gift of fate to men? And though some few may boast superior sense, Are they not call'd odd fellows by the rest? In any science, if this sense peep forth, Shew men the truth, and strive to turn their steps From ways wherein their gross forefathers err'd, Is not the general cry against them straight? _Sneer_. This Ignorance, Mr Fustian, seems to know a great deal.