_Snarle._ Yes, I have read it.

_Smart._ It is a very odd t.i.tle, a Bone for the Lawyers; who is the Author, pray? Is it known?

_Snarle._ Why Macklin gives out that some Gentleman, a Friend of his, has made him a Present of it, but I shrewdly suspect it to be his own.

_Rattle._ Whose! Macklin's?

_Snarle._ Ay!

_Rattle._ Why, can he write?

_Snarle._ Write? Ay, and d.a.m.nably too, I a.s.sure you, ha! ha! He writ a Tragedy this Winter, but so merry a Tragedy was never seen since the first night of Tom Thumb the Great.

_Smart._ I was at it and a merry Tragedy it was and a merry Audience!

_Snarle._ I never laughed so heartily at a Play in my Life; if his Farce has half so much Fun in it as his Tragedy had, I'll engage it succeeds.

_Smart._ Come, come. There was some tolerable Things in his Tragedy.

_Snarle._ Psha! psha! Stuff! Stuff! d.a.m.ned Stuff! Pray Sir, what do you think of Lady Catherine Gordon's Letter to her Father, Lord Huntley, that begun honoured Papa, hoping you are in good Health as I am at this present Writing. There was a Stile for Tragedy!

_Omnes._ Ha! ha! ha!

_Smart._ Well, I wish his Farce may succeed, however.

_Snarle._ O so do I upon my word, Sir.--I have a great Regard for Macklin--but to be sure he is a very egregious Blockhead ever to think of writing; that I believe everybody will allow.

_Omnes._ Ay, ay, there's n.o.body will dispute that with you, Mr.

Snarlewit.

_Snarle._ Notwithstanding he is such a Blockhead, I a.s.sure you, Mr.

Smart, I have an Esteem for him.

_Smart._ Do you know what Characters or Business he has in his Farce?

_Snarle._ I think his chief Character is an old Fellow, one Sir Isaac Skinflint, who is eaten up with Diseases, and who promises everybody Legacies, but dreads making a Will, for the Instant he does that he thinks he shall die.

_Rattle._ That's a very common Character; my Uncle was just such a superst.i.tious Wretch.

_Snarle._ And the Business of the Farce is to induce this old Fellow to disinherit all his Relations, except a Nephew who wants to be his sole Heir, which according to the Rules of Farce, you may suppose it to be brought about by a Footman who upon these Occasions always has more Wit than his Master.

_Smart._ But when is the Prologue to begin?

_Snarle._ Why as soon as the Curtain is drawn up you will see the Stage disposed in the Form of a Pit, and that you are to imagine the Prologue, and when they let the Curtain down, why then you must suppose it to be ended.

_Smart._ I wonder what the Audience will say when it is over.

_Snarle._ What? Why some will stare and wonder what the Actors have been about, and will still be expecting the Prologue; others will chuckle at their Disappointment, and cry--they knew how it would be; and some will judiciously observe--what better could be expected from a Prologue to be written and spoken by the Pit. But upon the whole, I dare say, ninety nine in a hundred will conclude it to be a parcell of low Stuff--and that its only Merit was the quaintness of the Conceit [which] raised the People's Curiosity and helped to fill the House; and so ends the Prologue--and now let us make a Noise for the Farce.

(_The Curtain is let down_)

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

for

A WILL AND NO WILL:

OR A BONE FOR THE LAWYERS

SIR ISAAC SKINFLINT LADY LOVEWEALTH BELLAIR HARRIET DOCTOR LEATHERHEAD LUCY COUNCELLOUR CORMORANT MR. LITTLEWIT MONSIEUR DU MAIGRE MR. DEATH SHARK SERVANT

ACT I

(_Enter_ SHARK _and_ LUCY--_meeting_)

_Shark._ Good morrow, Lucy.

_Lucy._ Good morrow, Shark.

_Shark._ Give me a Kiss, Hussy. (_Kisses her_)

_Lucy._ Psha--prithee don't touzle and mouzle a Body so; can't you salute without rumpling one's Tucker and spoiling one's Things? I hate to be tumbled. (_Adjusting herself_)

_Shark._ Ay, as much as you do Flattery or a looking Gla.s.s.

_Lucy._ Well, what's your Business this Morning? Have you any Message?

_Shark._ Yes, the old one: my Master's Duty to his gracious Uncle, Sir Isaac Skinflint, and he hopes he rested well last night--that is, to translate it out of the Language of Compliment into that of Sincerity, he hopes the old Huncks has made his Will, my Master his sole Heir, that he has had a very bad Night, and is within a few Hours of giving up the Ghost and paying a Visit to his old friend Belzebub.

_Lucy._ We were afraid he would have gone off last night; he has had two of his Epileptic Feasts.

_Shark._ Why sure the old Cannibal would not offer to make his Exit without making his Will; that would ruin us all.

_Lucy._ Nay it would be a considerable Loss to me should he die without a Will: for you know he has promised me a handsome Legacy.

_Shark._ And so he has to Thousands, my Dear; why, Child, I don't believe he has spent thirty Shillings upon himself in Food for these thirty years; all gratis, all upon the Spunge. Ay, ay, let Sir Isaac Skinflint alone for mumping a Dinner. There has not been a Churchwarden's or an Overseer's Feast these twenty years but what he has been at. And when he is not at these Irish meals, he is preying upon his Friends and Acquaintances, and promises them all Legacies.

"Well," he says, after he has filled his Paunch,--"I shall not forget you. I shall remember all my Friends. I have you down in my Will."

Then he claps his hand upon the Servant's Head as he is going out--"I shall think of you too, John. You are my old Friend"--but the Devil a Louse he gives him; an old gouty Rogue! I'll warrant the old Hypocrite has promised more Legacies than the Bank of England is able to pay.

Has he made any mention lately of his Nephew and Niece in the Country, Sir Roger b.u.mper and his Sister?

_Lucy._ He expects them in Town today, or tomorrow at farthest, and I believe he intends to make them joint Heirs with your Master.