DIALOGUES OF THE DEAD: In Imitation of LUCIAN, and the FRENCH. 

I. Between Jevon and the Whale.  
II. Aesop and an English Lady.  
III. Butler and Tartufe.  
IV. Hobbs and Poet Bays  
V. Cardinal Richlieu and Anthony Earl of Shaftsbury.  
VI. Clelia, and Monsieur de Scudery.  
VII. Moliere and a Lady.  
VIII. Ben. Johnson, Virgil, Two Ladies.    
LONDON: Printed for R. C. and are to be Sold by J. nut, near Stationers-Hall. 1699.   

To Her GRACE The duchess of Buclugh.  
MADAM,  
YOUR Grace's Goodness to Distress is so well known, that it encourageth the Author to beg Your Protection to a Book which needs so considerable a one, being writ by one, who besides all other Faults, is Poor; which I am afraid will prove as infallible an Argument with a great many to Rail, as it will with Your Grace to Defend, if there were any thing tolerable in it. I could enter here upon a Subject that would afford a large Field, the Praise which Your Grace so well deserves: But so many good Hands have undertaken it already, that it would be a boldness in a Pen that does not know whether it shall not be condemned, to meddle with a Work that is so well done already, and which I am so sensible ought to be so. It would be happy, if the Faults of my Book should not make it as fit, as my Circumstances do, never to aclowledge who writ it; and therefore that I may have something to own, that will be for my Honour, I beg leav● to subscribe myself,  
MADAM, Your Grace's 
 Most Humble and 
 Most Obedient Servant.   

DIALOGUES OF THE DEAD, &c.  

DIALOGUE I. Jevon. Whale.  Whale. 
WHAT art thou that cut'st so many Capers, and criest cut so at the sight of me?  Jevon. 
O, good Mr. Fish, don't speak so big, I was ready to die at the sight of thee before, and now thy great Mouth opens, I am out of my Wits for fear thou shouldst devour me.  Whale. 
Why, thou silly Fellow, hast thou forgot that we are both Dead, and I can't devour thee. Who art thou, prithee, that art so ridiculous? I think thou speakest like the People where I died.  Jevon. 
I know not where that was, but I was an Englishman, of no small famed upon the Stage, called Jevon; but I have considered since I came hither, that I made but a foolish Figure in being a Player, and am resolved, if I can get some Lethe, to go back, and be a Lord of the Admiralty.  Whale. 
Thou art the silliest Fellow that ever poor Fish met with; Wouldst thou be a Lord of the Admiralty, and art frighted out of thy Wits at the sight of a great Fish; why, I am nothing to what thou hast seen at Sea, if thou art fit for that Employment.  Jevon. 
Ha, ha, ha! seen at Sea, why thou ignorant Fish, I never saw the Sea in my life.  Whale. 
How, didst thou never see the Sea in thy life, and wouldst thou be an Admiral?  Jevon. 
Why, thou silly Dog of a Fish, so much the better: I was so senseless when I was upon Earth, to aim at understanding my part, and thought I could not Act it well else; but I find I was mistaken, and am resolved to go back and reform my Error, get to be a Parliament-man, and then I shall be a Lord of the Admiralty?  Whale. 
Are any of the places voided?  Jevon. 
No, but I hear they will quickly.  Whale. 
What are they to be put out for?  Jevon. 
Mismanagement.  Whale. 
What, then they are Seamen.  Jevon. 
No, I tell thee; how should I hope to come in, if it had been the fashion to put in Seamen?  Whale. 
Art not thou a silly Dog then, to say they are put out for mismanagement, since it was known when they were put in they must mismanage? Find another Reason.  Jevon. 
Yes, and so lose my hopes of Preferment; do thou find one who dost not aim at a place?  Whale. 
Not now, but I did before I came here, for I went on Shore a purpose to be a Charging-Horse for some Land-Officer, hearing of the extraordinary Fashions of the Country, but not having the Admiralty-Receipt of living out of ones Element, I died.  Jevon. 
Thou art a Fish of profound Ignorance; they need no such Receipt, for they never come near the Element, lest the Air of it should teach them a little Skill, and so unfit them for their Employment. But tell me however, why thou thinkest there must be a Remove?  Whale. 
They that are in, have swallowed little Fish enough, and must go off like me with two Tun of Whitings in their Bellies, and make room for others to fill theirs.   

DIALOGUE II. Aesop. English Lady.  Lady. 
O, What shall I do? Where are all my Lovers?  Aesop. 
What would you do with more than one? Can you mary them all?  Lady. 
No, but they might have followed me when I was married, if I had not come to this hideous dark place, where they can't be seen if they do.  Aesop. 
But you may hear the Effects of that following.  Lady. 
What was that?  Aesop. 
Laughter and Scandal.  Lady. 
What, you was one of those scurvy Fellows who could get none of my Favours, though I was very liberal of them, and therefore rail at me.  Aesop. 
No: I was one of those scurvy Fellows who knew 'twas in vain to hope for any Woman, and therefore hated you all beforehand; and had shown my Malice, if yourself and Lovers had not spared me the pains, in singing your Praises without me.  Lady. 
Then you Lampoon'd other Women.  Aesop. 
No: A great many did like you, and some were out of my reach, so that not knowing where to fix, I applied myself to Birds and Beasts that did not vex me.  Lady. 
What, you are Aesop then?  Aesop. 
Yes.  Lady. 
Thou mightest pass for a Wit among Birds and Beasts, but thou wast a very foolish Fellow among Women if there were any in thy time like me; for thou wouldst have helped to increase the train of Lovers, and be kindly used too, rather than lessen the Equipage.  Aesop. 
If there were any, they were as hateful to me as I could be to them.  Lady. 
Nothing is ever hateful to Women of my Sort, but what does not admire us; nor any thing lovely but ourselves.  Aesop. 
Then every thing that deserves to be valued, goes without it among you, and the most nauseous Part of the Creation is only loved; yet I am pleased with thee too, for being if it were possible a greater Contradiction to Love then myself, which I did not think there could be.  Lady. 
Be my Lover then for that; I don't care what 'tis for, so thou wilt but Love me; for all that can be said against me, does not afflict me like the Loss of my Lovers.  Aesop. 
Let not that afflict thee, thou hast not lost one; for all those Fellows thou bemoanest so, followed thee for the very same Reason thou wert pleased with its Vanity; they were incapable of Love, and being Beloved, and therefore were transported when they had found any thing Insipid enough to receive them.  Lady. 
I would use thee like a Dog, if I could make thee Love me for telling me all this.  Aesop. 
I will fly thee now, lest the Sympathy between my Body and thy Soul should prevail in time.   

DIALOGUE III. Butler. Tartufe.  Butler. 
WHAT art thou that slid'st about more thin and empty than any other Ghost?  Tartufe. 
I am Tartufe.  Butler. 
I dont wonder then that thou art so Airy, for thou art nothing.  Tartufe. 
How! Thou wonder of Ignorance, am I nothing? I would have thee to know that thou art nothing in comparison of me; I am Thousands, I am to day a Capuchin, to morrow a Franciscan, next day a very Godly Quaker; another, an Anabaptist. I am now a Church of England Man or Woman, that Fasts and preys, and forgets Charity and Morality: Then a Presbyterian, who parts with a Church he owns to be without fundamental Errors, for the Name of Sanctity: And next, to sum up all, I am a Jesuit.  Butler. 
Why then I find my Hudibras, whom I thought nothing but a Phantom of my own making, is a very considerable Person; but I tell thee for all that, neither he nor thee are any thing but a Representation.  Tartufe. 
Why, what are the Hypocrites we represent, but Representations? And that ten thousand times more silly then we; for when we are no longer seen nor red, vanish into nothing as we were before the Poet formed us; but they must be something in spite of their emptiness.  Butler. 
Dost thou not own now what I said at first, That thou art nothing?  Tartufe. 
Why so I tell thee are the things I represent while they are on Earth, for they belong neither to God nor the World, in which they take more pains by half to buy Hell, than would serve to carry them to Heaven; so that they are nothing till the time comes when they will wish to be nothing.   

DIALOGUE IV. Poet Bays, And Hobbs.  Poet Bays. 
WHAT are you?  Hobbs. 
I am a parcel of Atoms that jumbled together by chance, and as you see formed a certain two-legged Animal, but a very considerable One for all that; the greatest Philosopher that ever was.  Poet Bays. 
O, I know you by your Vanity and Atoms, you are Mr. Hobbs; I am very much beholden to you, I learnt my Dance of the Sun, the Moon, and the Earth, from that of the Atoms; it pleased me, and slap it went down for my own.  Hobbs. 
To see the Emptiness of this poor Fellow, to talk as if it were noting but a Poetical Notion! I tell thee, Trifler, I am no Poet, but an infallible Philosopher, and 'tis all True that I Taught.  Poet Bays. 
How is it True, now you find yourself here?  Hobbs. 
Yes that it is, I tell thee, foolish Poet, I dance the Hay among the Atoms, as you did with the Sun, Moon and Earth, though I hate to have a Jack-pudding imitate my Dance.  Poet Bays. 
O, you may well be positive, if you was behind the Scene and saw it all contrived.  Hobbs. 
I tell thee I was; I saw the grappling Irons that hookt every thing together, and can tell to a Hair what will let them loose again.  Poet Bays. 
This is rare indeed, you are as Good as one of my People in the Clouds, and may with them pled a privilege of not being bound to speak Sense.  Hobbs. 
dost not thou perceive that I spake more than ever was heard of. I demonstrate every thing; which of your Religionists can do so? they have not seen the Things they spake of, and I have: What can you say to that?  Poet Bays. 
Who I? not one Word, 'tis all Fire and flamme, and all that, and I admire thee extremely.  Hobbs. 
But now I think on't, Art not thou Poet Bays? I thought that had been only a Character of the Duke of Buckingham's making, and not a real being.  Poet Bays. 
Why might not the Duke of Buckingham as well pretend to make a being, as you to destroy him who gave every thing being, and when you have done to make a World yourself?  Hobbs. 
I tell thee, I did not say I made it, I only knew how it was made.  Poet Bays. 
You might as well make it, as be positively sure how it was made without divine Revelation.  Hobbs. 
I shall never forgive the Duke of Buckingham for making thee, thou art so troublesome; have I not proved in my Writings, that there is no divine Revelation?  Poet Bays. 
Why then you have proved yourself in your Writings among your two-legged Beasts, an Ass, to meddle with proving the Creation of the World, which you can know nothing of? Come, come, turn Poet, and then all you say may pass under poetic licence.  Hobbs. 
With what Face canst thou talk thus to a Man of my Gravity and Wisdom?  Poet Bays. 
That very grave Face and Beard will make thee hooted at here, where Impudence and false Reasoning signify nothing but to make thee appear ten times more a Fool than if thou didst not set up for a Wit with such abominable false Ware.  Hobbs. 
Have I not  told thee, That I affirmed nothing but what I could make out?  Poet Bays. 
Yes, but you have not made it good; pray Mr. Wonder of a Philosopher, to whom Lucretius and all those you stolen your foolish Notions from, are but Asses, can you tell me, since you was at the Dance, what Atoms the Universal Notion of a God was composed of?  Hobbs. 
Why Fool, Did I ever deny that there was a God? I only said, That it was below him to mind this Earth, and the Animals upon it.  Poet Bays. 
And how then, pray, did these Animals come to find him out, if he can't find them out, but be shut up so close in Heaven, that the Atoms must needs be very subtle that could get in and out to bring News of him?  Hobbs. 
Has not another Philosopher prove● lately, that it may be found out by Reasonin● and that Reasoning itself, and all the Faculties of a Soul that is called Immortal, are only the Effects of our Senses?  Poet Bays. 
Methinks then he yields a great Advantage to the Senses of those Prophets, which were piercing enough to prie into so many future Ages.  Hobbs. 
Pho ', ha'n't my Writings proved sufficiently that we have only Peoples Word for it, and that it may be a Trick?  Poet Bays. 
Can you prove that all those Millions who affirmed the fulfilling of Prophecies, did lye? for it will do you no good to say they might; it is not likely they did; and so the Probability, which is all you can pretend to, is against you.  Hobbs. 
O what shall I do? Here comes Rhadamanthus.  Poet Bays. 
O, I'll tell you what you shall pretend, to be my Drawcansir, I can do no less than restore it when you need it; so much for you, and your one or two Fellows against Mankind; furnish me with it as you did with the Dance.   

DIALGGUE V. Cadinal Richlieu. Anthony E. of Shaftsbury.  Rich. 
WHAT have we here, a walking Runlet! O'tis a Man with a Tap in his Side. What art thou?  Shaftsb. 
I am Anthony Earl of Shaftsbury.  Rich. 
I have heard of you, and am glad to see you, in hopes of hearing the Reasons of a Policy that looks very strange to me, That you who had no Religion, must all of a sudden destroy your great Favour with the King, by declaring so fiercely against Popery, which you knew he had a Mind should be quiet?  Shaftsb. 
I had my Reasons to desire being the Rabbles God, and there was no way like that.  Rich. 
You might have made a Noise against Popery, and pleased the Rabble without losing the King by inventing that persecuting Test.  Shaftsb. 
No, I could do no good with the Rabble, while they had a good Opinion of the Gentry and Nobility, which I durst not attempt to take off, by speaking publicly against them, and therefore was fain to device this Test to make them suspect them.  Rich. 
I can't understand how it could hurt any but those who could not take it.  Shaftsb. 
Yes, it made People believe, that I who was known to have a Reach beyond the Common, found a general Inclination to Popery among them, when I thought there was need of exacting Oaths against it.  Rich. 
What do you make then of Coronation Oaths?  Shaftsb. 
The Nature of the Thing requires it; but whosoever advices a King to Impose new ones, has a mind to have his Subjects believe he suspects them to be leaning to what they are required to Renounce; for People are never required to forswear what they hate, every one knowing that Nature is instead of a thousand Oaths in making them forbear it.  Rich. 
Your Kings do not use to device new Oaths, but your Parliaments impose new ones upon themselves.  Shaftsb. 
'Tis a sign then, that they suspect themselves to want Courage, if not Will to refuse what they Renounce, without it; did you ever hear of any that forswore what they have no Inclination to? Does a Spendthrift ever forswear Hoarding, or an Old Mizer throwing away his Money? Did ever any that never toutch't a carded, forswear them? And how many that love them too well, do, to keep their Companions from the Solicitations which they fear should prevail?  Rich. 
Well, you compassed your End; you made the Subjects suspect one another by your Test, and the King hateful to them all by shutting up the Exchequer; but pray what was the End of all this?  Shaftsb. 
That wearied out with Troubles, Divisions and Mismanagements, they might find the Want of so wise a Head as mine, and choose me for King.  Rich. 
O abominable! 'Tis pity but the King had known all this, when he heaped his Favours upon you.  Shaftsb. 
Why do you make such an outcry at me? Is it not the Fashion of all Favourites to give the Advice which they think most for their own Profit, without caring one Farthing whether they Ruin their Master or no?  Rich. 
Then all Favourites are Fools; do they not commonly fall with them, sometimes first; and if they escape both, did ever any of them rise upon their Master's ruin, as I did upon the Greatness of mine, which I took such pains to procure.  Shaftsb. 
It is not to be denied; however the Favourites come not to follow your Steps: but methinks as clear as your Sight was, you did not give your Kings a true Idea of Greatness; for a Government which lies all in a single Man's humour, must certainly ruin the Subject: And however Kings come not to reflect upon it till 'tis too late, their Greatness rises, sinks, and perishes, with the Prosperity of their People.  Rich. 
I did not form that Government as the best; but it was the best I could introduce then there; for one Arbitrary Prince was better than Hundreds, which was the Case then in France, every Nobleman being so: And I could not take away part of their Power, without taking all, for there is no doubt if it could have been done, but your Constitution is best for King as well as People.   

DIALOGUE VI. Clelia. Monsieur de Scudery.  Clelia. 
THOU villainous gall: Was it not enough that thy Nation once ruined Rome with their Swords, but thou must slander one of their Heroines with the Pen, and say I was in Love?  Scudery. 
You Romans think it part of your Glory to pick Quarrels; I think, if I had used you as the Author of Casandra did the Princess. Statira, you might have been angry.  Clelia. 
What has he done to her?  Scudery. 
He has not only made her in Love, but in such Distress for a Husband, that when she was croft in him she loved, she is resolved to have one however, and gives her Hand to Alexander, while the imaginary Hero has her Heart.  Clelia. 
'Tis barbarous beyond Expression in him; but let her defend her own Quarrel, I have enough to do with my own.  Scudery. 
I can't imagine why you should have any; have I not made a Hero for you, that deserved you to the utmost? And is not the Design on both sides Honour and Marriage? where is the Disgrace of all this?  Clelia. 
No where, if it had been True; but your confounding my glorious Action with so many Lies, may make that questioned as well as the rest.  Scudery. 
By that Rule all Actions that ever have been done, Good, Bad, or Indifferent, may be questioned as well as yours; for they are  told with as many Additions and Alterations as they pass through Hands.  Clelia. 
'Tis much to the purpose to do great Actions then, if they are subject to so many Misrepresentations.  Scudery. 
Indeed, if they are done only for Vanity, they may chance miss their Aim; though a clear Understanding will generally guess pretty right through all the Mists that are raised about them.  Clelia. 
How should they do that, unless there were certain Marks set upon Truth and falsehood?  Scudery. 
From the Character of those they are  told of, and that of those that tell them; though I generally judge most of the Teller, by the Story; for most People draw their own Picture upon it: In a Cobler's Hands it shall have the Air of a cobbler; in a Market-Woman's, of a Market-Woman.  Clelia. 
But my Story is in no danger of falling into such Hands now; for being only recorded in History, and your Romance, they will never hear of it.  Scudery. 
O, you are in a great Mistake, for the Souls of a great many Market-Women in former days are got into Ladies in these; and all the Mean, the Spiteful, the Ridiculous Chat that was confined to the Market in your time, helps People to talk now, that must be silent else; nay, and makes them pass for good Company too with those that are not above their pitch.  Clelia. 
If they are all of that sort, I don't care what they say.  Scudery. 
No, there is variety now, as there was always; and you may expect Justice in some places.  Clelia. 
But why do people tell a Story that has but one, with so many different Faces?  Scudery. 
Because they put themselves in the places of them they speak of, and tell what they would have done if they had been there; if it falls into witty Hands, they will find a witty Meaning where perhaps there was none; if into filly ones, 'tis all over Nonsense and Folly immediately, let them have never so much Wit that acted it.  Clelia. 
Well, provided I have the Reasonable on my side, the rest may do what they will; And none but Fools as great as they that tell them, will harken to the others, because there is no diversion in them.  Scudery. 
Yes, the Envious, who will find some in any thing that lessons others.   

DIALOGUE VII. Moliere, Lady.  Lady. 
WHERE is my Woman? She should have died with me; how does she think I can set my Feet without her?  Moliere. 
I find you was Blind above that, that you can't perceive; Eyes are of no use here.  Lady. 
What ignorant Fellow are you that talk thus? I had Eyes above, and what ever you may think, very fine ones too, unless all the Beaus were mistaken; and which is more, my Woman.  Moliere. 
Your Woman! What an Insignificant thing do you make of yourself, if you could see, not to be the Judge yourself of what they were? Which was I believe as little capable of making Conquests as discerning.  Lady. 
Why thou pitiful mean Fellow! for such to be sure thou wert: Dost thou think it became my State to judge for myself? Let them who have no Quality or Money enough to keep a woman, see with their own Eyes; and after having taken a great deal of Pains to know who is handsome or ugly, deserving or undeserving, be in the wrong at last.  Moliere. 
True, if every Ladies Eyes were like yours: But I always thought till your ladyship better informed me, That Peoples Souls and their Ranks had generally agreed, and looked for the Wit of a Ladies Woman in her Fingers.  Lady. 
I wish my Woman were here to Answer thee.  Moliere. 
And pray if the Lady is so helpless, who must choose the Woman, for fear she should be so too?  Lady. 
Thou art wonderful Ignorant; as if all Ladies Women had not Wit enough to govern them: I am sure none of mine ever failed, though some were greater Wits than others, and the last generally greatest.  Moliere. 
Madam, let me entreat the Favour of you to return to Earth again with me; for without your Character, my Plays are Imperfect.  Lady. 
Who are you?  Moliere. 
I am Moliere.  Lady. 
And what do you make then of the Women in your Plays, that talked and laughed with their Masters, when their Ladies had not Wit enough to do it?  Moliere. 
'Tis plain enough what they are, Confident, Bold, Merry Wenches, who if they lost that Place with offending, might get another, though the Ladies could not other Husbands and Fathers; and therefore let their Wit be never so much above their Women's, might not venture to speak upon those Occasions: And yet I confess their Figure even so, is rather too considerable.  Lady. 
Not half enough; but as they are, I should be glad of one here: Can you help me?  Moliere. 
No, they fell out with my Ghost long a go, and brought me before the Court; but if you will go back again with me, I will take care your own Woman shall die just when you do.  Lady. 
Thank you, with all my Heart; come, let's go presently.   

DIALOGUE VIII. Virgil, Ben. Johnson, and Two Eng. Ladies.  Vir. 
WHAT makes all this Noise? O 'tis a Trump! Pray whose Trumpeter are you?  Ben. Jo. 
My own.  Vir. 
That is good Husbandry beyond what I ever heard of; but pray then, what great Officer are you besides?  Ben. Jo. 
I am Ben. Johnson, the Prince of Poets.  Vir. 
O, I have heard of you before, and thought you had been deserving enough not to need being your own Trumpeter?  Ben. Jo. 
You are in the right, I was deserving enough, to have had all the World for my Trumpeters, if I had lived in an Age when Merit would hire any; but I did not, and therfore was forced to be my own.  Vir. 
Did your Merit get none? I am afraid then your Trumpet sounds False; there was certainly never any Age so unhapy to have none in it that could distinguish Right?  Ben. Jo. 
You are not Radamanthus, I hope, you are so nicely strict in the way of Speaking? What I said was according to the common liberty of Speech: When I said there were none that had judgement enough to praise me, I meant in comparison of those who wanted it.  Vir. 
O, I thought you meant so! And should have thought too, you had never heard or red of any Age but your own, if some of your Plays did not show to the contrary: Do you think all Ages were not alike for that? Was there ever any in which there was not ten thousand Fools to one Judge?  Ben. Jo. 
You talk so of Judges, and require such Smartness in answering, that I dare not say a Word more till I know whether you are Radamanthus or no?  Vir. 
I am Virgil, who you see, without being my own Trumpeter, have made a shift to find enough to bear up my famed till your time.  Ben. Jo. 
That may show you then, that all Ages are not alike; with how universal an Applause were your Works received; and how small a share had mine, which, deserved at least as well?  Vir. 
Suppose you give yourself but your due: Did you live in my Time to know that? You do not find me indeed upon Record begging Praise, or hectoring for it: But shall I tell you where was the Difference, it was in the Men, and not in the Times: Never believe but that there were Millions in that and every Age since, who could not discern any Beauty in my Poems; but I was so far from being concerned for their Praise, that I should have been frighted and looked narrowly over my Works again to see where I had fallen low enough to please them; and if you escaped it in your Works, you must thank your Stars, and not your Skill: For the Fool must have a great share in him who desires any share in the Fool, and 'tis not a small one any where that prevails for Praise.  Ben. Jo. 
You may speak big, who had an Augustus and maecenas on your side; but I was fain to writ for the Fools, and could not get their Money, which I wanted, without their Applause.  Vir. 
You should have writ according to their Capacities then, and made that an Excuse for doing it ill; as I hear some of the Poets in your Nation do now.  Ben. Jo. 
Do you believe any Body that had a Genius, would prostitute it so?  Vir. 
Not unless I saw him grumble and whine for want of their Praise.  Ben. Jo. 
Do not I tell you, I should not have cared for their Approbation, if I could have had their Money without it.  Vir. 
You should have been contented without both, or do something for them, and not be so unreasonable to expect that a Droll-Judge should commend a good Play.  Ben. Jo. 
To show you then that there was a Difference in the Times we lived in, I found my ' Count in it; when I praised my Plays, they liked them, though they did not before: You had to do with People to whom silent modest Merit is a thousand Praises; but if, like me, you had dealt with them that understood nothing of it, you must have commended yourself, or they would never have known you deserved it.  Vir. 
I would not have had them; I would have lived in my Cottage at Mantua first.  Ben. Jo. 
'Tis easy to Philosophise under the Sun shine of Augustus Favour; but I was all Poet, and no Philosopher, and wanted good Sack, and the conveniences of Life, which I thought well gained with praising myself to bad Judges, while my Writings did it to the Good.  Vir. 
I am afraid there was something more in it than so; for you are using your Trumpet now to me, whom I suppose you will not rank among the very worst Judges: But who are these?  1st. Lady. 
I am a Lady, that am pleased to think how happy I was in the World, to be born above these foolish Disputes of Wit.  2d. Lady. 
O whither am I got! Am I among the Wits? Whither shall I fly to avoid the Infection? A Wit! Who would be a Wit?  Vir. 
You may stay safely; that very Fear shows you are absolutely incapable of taking the Infection: But what are you?  2d. Lady. 
I am a Lady just come hither; but are you sure there is no danger of catching this terrible Disease? I am all over in a Trembling; methinks I feel some of my Discretion gone already; I would not say a witty thing for all the World.  Vir. 
Take courage, Madam, you never will. But pray, if there is not too much Wit in giving a Reason for what you say, give me leave to ask, why you are so angry with Wit? And when the War between that and Discretion begun? For when I was upon Earth there was no being Discreet without it.  2d. Lady. 
O, the Contradictions that these Wits will maintain! Why there is, nor never was any being Discreet with it; a witty Man will rather lose his Friend than his Jest, and never considers any thing.  Vir. 
This is new indeed! And pray what is a Discreet Man?  Lady. 
I cannot tell what a Discreet Man is; but a Discreet Woman is always taken up with Business, or finding fault with them that are not; and not in keeping foolish witty Company, or any other Diversion.  Vir. 
A very fine Definition you have given of Wit and Discretion! A Witty Man, in your Sense, is a Jack-pudding with a Sword by his Side, which he draws at every Body he meets, provoking them to do him what hurt they can; and a Discreet one, is an unfortunate Lump of day, who being incapable of tasting any Pleasure, drudges on in his Pack-Horse-Road, and never seeks the Refreshment of any Diversion, because he knows he cannot taste it.  2d. Lady. 
O dear Madam! Let us be gone from these Wits; do you hear what a vile Character he has given of Discretion?  Vir. 
No 'tis you that give it; I am as far from thinking a heavy, silent Sot, Discreet, as I am from thinking a prating Fool witty: I take Discretion to be first thinking Right, and then Acting accordingly; and Wit, to be putting those Thoughts into Words when there is no occasion for Action; for if both are not the Result of Thought, 'tis neither Wit nor Discretion, but Chance.  2d. Lady. 
Sure Mr. Wit you are Mad; why, a Witty Man never thinks, but is always talking; and a Discreet one never spenks, but of Business, or to find Fault, and then his Reasons are always full of Gravity.  Vir. 
There you mistake again; 'tis not the Seriousness which People reason with, but the Truth which gives them Weight: Which indeed a Man may with all the Gravity you require, wanting Spirits to do otherwise, yet do it Right; but then 'tis a Picture of Reason in dead Colours, which he would certainly give Life to if he could; neither is this any thing to your Purpose, for lowness nor highness of Spirits, are neither essential to Wit nor Folly, but common to both.  2d. Lady. 
I find you Wits are all Mad; I tell you, Gravity is Essential to Discretion, which you know nothing of.  Vir. 
You are once in the Right; Gravity is Essential to the Discretion which I know nothing of: For it is nothing else but dullness when it is without Wit; and if by chance it has any shadow of Discretion, that is all, and that may be gone too the next Minute, if any thing happens to give the Machine an irregular Turn, since it did not come from good Sense, but Heaviness.  Ben. Jo. 
Come Madam, take Heart-of-Grace, you shall be Discreet without Reason for all him; and I will make you Immortal in one of my Plays, if I can but drink of Lethe, and go back again.  2d. Lady. 
I will have nothing to do with you for a Wit, as you are too; I don't know what sly Trick you may put upon me, under pretence of Friendship.  Ben. Jo. 
None at all, Madam; you shall have all the Ingredients that are necessary to making your Pudding, and it shall not be too costly neither.  1st. Lady. 
Come, come, Madam, he Mocks you; but I would have him to know, that we are above it; there is no Body would be at the trouble of being a Wit, if they had Money enough to have the Indian Woman, the Tire-Woman, the Mantua-Woman, the Sempstress and the Jeweller, with them all Day; but for want of that agreeable Entertainment, they are fain to talk wittily, though I believe when they have got that ill Turn in their Discourse, they would never be able to compass this gentle one.  2d. Lady. 
Why Madam, you are as bad as a Wit; while you are dispatching these People, you lose the Time that should be spent in talking of Houswifry, and correcting your Neighbours Faults.  1st. Lady. 
No, no, don't mistake yourself, that is one means of knowing our Neighbours Faults; and if it were but for that, and to talk over all the things they bring, how could one live without them? How would it be possible to maintain Discourse a Visiting? What an ungentile thing would it be to force Wit upon the Company, if one were so unfortunate to be troubled with it?  2d. Lady. 
I am of your Mind for that; but can't be reconciled to all those unnecessary People; you may buy your things Cheaper, and with less Trouble at the Shops.  1st. Lady. 
Yes, and so have no Body think me well dressed, when I can neither say, I had my Mantua of such a one, such a one made it, and such a one dressed my Head.  2d. Lady. 
Why not, so all be well made, chosen and put on?  1st. Lady. 
As if that could be without them?  Ben. Jo. 
No, no, Madam, you are in the Right; if I can but get some of this Lethe, I will Immortalize both you and them.  1st. Lady. 
Ay, ay, so you shall, that will be putting your Wit to a right use, to writ my Praises; you shall come to my Levee with the rest, and prate among them; but you must be sure to break off in the middle, if the Tire-Woman, or Indian-Woman begin to open their Lips.  Ben. Jo. 
That will be hard to observe.  1st. Lady. 
Nay, 'tis no matter; for I shall not mind you, when they speak; but where must we find this Lethe now we have settled the Matter?  Ben. Jo. 
Virgil must instruct us, he understands this Place the best of any.  Vir. 
And what will you do, Madam?  2d. Lady. 
O, I will stay here, for Discretion makes People indifferent for every thing; yet now I think on't, I have a mind to go back, for it distracts me to think what a Confusion there is among my Servants now I am not there.  Vir. 
I thought what was your Indifference, that your Servants can rob you of it.  2d. Lady. 
Why may not I be Indifferent about Diversions, Places, and all the Things that take up the Idle People, and yet be angry with my Servants? Why, that is part of my Discretion.  Vir. 
That is, 'tis part of your Discretion to be unmoved with every thing that is agreeable, and let your Servants take up your Soul.  2d. Lady. 
How take up my Soul, if they do things that 'tis impossible to forbear being ngry at?  Vir. 
Yes, if they only can across your desires; for nothing can make People angry, but what does that; Anger being only a more ill-natured sort of Sorrow?  2d. Lady. 
Who do you think can see with Patience the Mischiefs they do among their Things? Or the senseless Mistakes they commit?  Vir. 
They that do not think the breaking of a Glass the Ruin of their Family, nor have Understandings so little distinguished from those of their Servants, as to fear their Follies should reflect upon them.  2d. Lady. 
If you go to that, Mr. Poet, I can take the breaking of a Glass with as much Patience as any body, and have been admired for it: But the Impertinence of Servants is not to be endured; one comes and teases me for more of one thing, another for more of another, to perform their Office.  Vir. 
Why don't you grant their desires?  2d. Lady. 
Because they are unreasonable.  Vir. 
Why should their want of Reason afflict you, unless you love them?  2d. Lady. 
Because 'tis troublesone to me, they will take no denial, and make a Noise about my Ears that puts me out of my Senses.  Vir. 
And why should that Noise put you out of your Senses, any more than the whistling of the Wind, or any other disagreeable one, if it were as indifferent to you? But the Truth is, that as great Souls are almost always Calm, because there is scarce any thing in the World high enough to reach them; yours enjoys the same Privilege from the contrary Extreant, nothing is low enough to touch you, but your Servants, and you show by your transport of rage at them, that if you had a taste of any thing else, it would move you as much.  2d. Lady. 
I should be a fine Fool indeed, if I could be convinced by a Wit; I will stay no longer in your scurvy Company.  Vir. 
I will stay no longer in yours, and that was the reason I asked whether you would stay or go; come, will you go?  Ben. Jo. 
First Lady, led on, we follow.  
FINIS.