_Horn._ And may so to the short-sighted world; as a false jewel amongst true ones is not discerned at a distance. His company is as troublesome to us as a cuckold's when you have a mind to his wife's. _Har._ No, the rogue will not let us enjoy one another, but ravishes our conversation; though he signifies no more to't than Sir Martin Mar-all's[72] gaping, and awkward thrumming upon the lute, does to his man's voice and music. _Dor._ And to pass for a wit in town shows himself a fool every night to us, that are guilty of the plot. _Horn._ Such wits as he are, to a company of reasonable men, like rooks to the gamesters; who only fill a room at the table, but are so far from contributing to the play, that they only serve to spoil the fancy of those that do. _Dor._ Nay, they are used like rooks too, snubbed, checked, and abused; yet the rogues will hang on. _Horn._ A pox on 'em, and all that force nature, and would be still what she forbids 'em! Affectation is her greatest monster. _Har._ Most men are the contraries to that they would seem. Your bully, you see, is a coward with a long sword; the little humbly-fawning physician, with his ebony cane, is he that destroys men. _Dor._ The usurer, a poor rogue, possessed of mouldy bonds and mortgages; and we they call spendthrifts, are only wealthy, who lay out his money upon daily new purchases of pleasure. _Horn._ Ay, your arrantest cheat is your trustee or executor; your jealous man, the greatest cuckold; your churchman the greatest atheist; and your noisy pert rogue of a wit, the greatest fop, dullest ass, and worst company, as you shall see; for here he comes. _Enter_ SPARKISH. _Spark._ How is't, sparks? how is't? Well, faith, Harry, I must rally thee a little, ha! ha! ha! upon the report in town of thee, ha! ha! ha! I can't hold i'faith; shall I speak? _Horn._ Yes; but you'll be so bitter then. _Spark._ Honest Dick and Frank here shall answer for me; I will not be extreme bitter, by the universe. _Har._ We will be bound in a ten thousand pound bond, he shall not be bitter at all. _Dor._ Nor sharp, nor sweet. _Horn._ What, not downright insipid? _Spark._ Nay then, since you are so brisk, and provoke me, take what follows. You must know, I was discoursing and rallying with some ladies yesterday, and they happened to talk of the fine new signs in town-- _Horn._ Very fine ladies, I believe. _Spark._ Said I, I know where the best new sign is.--Where? says one of the ladies.--In Covent-Garden, I replied.--Said another, In what street?--In Russel-street, answered I.--Lord, says another, I'm sure there was never a fine new sign there yesterday.--Yes, but there was, said I again; and it came out of France, and has been there a fortnight. _Dor._ A pox! I can hear no more, prithee. _Horn._ No, hear him out; let him tune his crowd a while. _Har._ The worst music, the greatest preparation.