# The Rehearsal/Act 3-1

ACTUS III. SCÆNA I.
Bayes with a papyr on his Nose, and the two Gentlemen.
Bayes.Now, Sir, this I do, because my fancie in this Play is to end every Act with a Dance.
Smi. Faith, that fancie is very good, but I should hardly have broke my nose for it, though.
Johns. That fancie, I suppose, is new too.
Bayes. Sir, all my fancies are so. I tread upon no mans heels; but make my flight upon my own wings, I assure you. As, now, this next Scene some perhaps will say, It is not very necessary to the Plot: I grant it; what then? I meant it so. ​But then it's as full of Drollery as ever it can hold: 'tis like an Orange stuck with Cloves, as for conceipt. Come, where are you? This Scene will make you die with laughing, if it be well acted: it is a Scene of sheer Wit, without any mixture in the world, I gad. [Reads—
Enter Prince Pretty-man, and Tom Thimble his Taylor.
This, Sirs, might properly enough be call'd a prize of Wit; for you shall see 'em come in upon one another snip snap, hit for hit, as fast as can be. First one speaks, then presently t'other's upon him slap, with a Repartee; then he at him again, dash with a new conceipt: and so eternally, eternally, I gad, till they go quite off the Stage. [Goes to call the Players.
Smi. What a plague, does this Fop mean by his snip snap, hit for hit, and dash?
Johns. Mean? why, he never meant any thing in's life: what dost talk of meaning for?
Enter Bayes.
Bayes. Why don't you come in?
Enter Prince Pretty-man and Tom. Thimble.
Pret. But pr'ythee, Tom Thimble, why wilt thou needs marry? If nine Taylors make but one man; and one woman cannot be satisfi'd with nine men: what work art thou cutting our here for thy self, trow we?
Bayes. Good.
Thim. Why, an't please your Highness, if I can't make up all the work I cut out, I shan't want Journey-men to help me, I warrant you.
Bayes. Good again.
Pret. I am afraid thy Journey-men, though, Tom, won't work by the day, but by the night.
Bayes. Good still.
Thim. However, if my wife sits but cross-leg'd, as I do, there will be no great danger: not half so much as when I trusted you for your Coronation-suit.
Bayes. Very good, i'faith.
Pret. Why, the times then liv'd upon trust; it was the ​fashion. You would not be out of time, at such a time as that, sure: A Taylor, you know, must never be out of fashion.
Bayes. Right.
Thim. I'm sure, Sir, I made your cloath in the Court-fashion, for you never paid me yet.
Bayes. There's a bob for the Court.
Pret. Why, Tom, thou art a sharp rogue when thou art angry, I see: thou pay'st me now, methinks.
Thim. I, Sir, in your own coyn: you give me nothing but words.
Bayes. Admirable, before gad.
Pret. Well, Tom, I hope shortly I shall have another coyn for thee; for now the Wars come on, I shall grow to be a man of mettal.
Bayes. O, you did not do that half enough.
Johns. Methinks he does it admirably.
Bayes. I, pretty well; but he does not hit me in't: he does not top his part.
Thim. That's the way to be stamp'd your self, Sir. I shall see you come home, like an Angel for the Kings-evil, with a hole bor'd through you. [Exeunt.
Bayes. That's very good, i'faith: ha, ha, ha. Ha, there he has hit it up to the hilts, I gad. How do you like it now, Gentlemen? is not this pure Wit?
Smi. 'Tis snip snap, Sir, as you say; but, methinks, not pleasant, nor to the purpose, for the Play does not go on.
Bayes. Play does not go on? I don't know what you mean: why, is not this part of the Play?
Smi. Yes, but the Plot stands still.
Bayes. Plot stand still! why, what a Devil is the Plot good for, but to bring in fine things?
Smi. O, I did not know that before.
Bayes. No, I think you did not: nor many things more, that I am Master of. Now, Sir, I gad, this is the bane of all us Writers: let us soar never so little above the common pitch, I gad, all's spoil'd; for the vulgar never understand us, they can never conceive you, Sir, the excellencie of these things.
​Johns. 'Tis a sad fate, I must confess: but you write on still?
Bayes. Write on? I, I gad, I warrant you. 'Tis not their talk shall stop me: if they catch me at that lock, I'l give 'em leave to hang me. As long as I know my things to be good, what care I what they say? What, they are gone, and forgot the Song!
Smi. They have done very well, methinks, here's no need of one.
Bayes. Alack, Sir, you know nothing: you must ever interlard your Plays with Songs, Ghosts and Idols, if you mean to ——— a ———
Johns. Pit, Box and Gallery, Mr. Bayes.
Bayes. I gad, Sir, and you have nick'd it. Hark you, Mr. Johnson, you know I don't flatter, a gad, you have a great deal of Wit.
Johns. O Lord, Sir, you do me too much honour.
Bayes. Nay, nay, come, come, Mr. Johnson, Ifacks this must not be said, amongst us that have it. I know you have wit by the judgement you make of this Play; for that's the measure I go by: my Play is my Touch-stone. When a man tells me such a one is a person of parts; is he so, say I? what do I do, but bring him presently to see this Play: If he likes it. I know what to think of him; if not, your most humble Servant, Sir, I'l no more of him upon my word, I thank you. I am Clara voyant, a gad. Now here we go on to our business.