_Fust_. Faith, sir, out of their peculiar modesty; intimating that after the audience had been tired with the dull works of Shakspeare, Jonson, Vanbrugh, and others, they are to be entertained with one of these pantomimes, of which the master of the playhouse, two or three painters, and half a score dancing-masters are the compilers. What these entertainments are, I need not inform you, who have seen 'em; but I have often wondered how it was possible for any creature of human understanding, after having been diverted for three hours with the production of a great genius, to sit for three more and see a set of people running about the stage after one another, without speaking one syllable, and playing several juggling tricks, which are done at Fawks's after a much better manner; and for this, sir, the town does not only pay additional prices, but loses several fine parts of its best authors, which are cut out to make room for the said farces. _Sneer_. 'Tis very true; and I have heard a hundred say the same thing, who never failed being present at them. _Fust_. And while that happens, they will force any entertainment upon the town they please, in spite of its teeth. [_Ghost of_ COMMON SENSE _rises_.] Oons, and the devil, madam! what's the meaning of this? You have left out a scene. Was ever such an absurdity as for your ghost to appear before you are killed. _Q. C. S_. I ask pardon, sir; in the hurry of the battle I forgot to come and kill myself. _Fust_. Well, let me wipe the flour off your face then. And now, if you please, rehearse the scene; take care you don't make this mistake any more though, for it would inevitably damn the play if you should. Go to the corner of the scene, and come in as if you had lost the battle. _Q. C. S_. Behold the ghost of Common Sense appears. _Fust_. 'Sdeath, madam, I tell you you are no ghost--you are not killed. _Q. C. S_. Deserted and forlorn, where shall I fly. The battle's lost, and so are all my friends. _Enter a_ Poet. _Poet_. Madam, not so; still you have one friend left. _Q. C. S_. Why, what art thou? _Poet_. Madam, I am a poet. _Q. C. S_. Whoe'er thou art, if thou'rt a friend to misery, Know Common Sense disclaims thee. _Poet_. I have been damn'd Because I was your foe, and yet I still Courted your friendship with my utmost art. _Q. C. S_. Fool! thou wert damn'd because thou didst pretend Thyself my friend; for hadst thou boldly dared, Like Hurlothrumbo, to deny me quite, Or, like an opera or pantomime, Profess'd the cause of Ignorance in publick, Thou might'st have met with thy desired success; But men can't bear even a pretence to me. _Poet_. Then take a ticket for my benefit night. _Q. C. S_. I will do more--for Common Sense will stay Quite from your house, so may you not be damn'd.