One Market-day, (which was the chief time they pitcht on) they Acted a Play, (by the invitation of some Gentlemen in a Tavern,) in which there were two which fought on the stage, which were supposed Clowns, and were to baste one another to some purpose. A Countrey Gentleman being there present, and having never seen a play, but this Acted once before, and seeing them fight again in the same manner, as they had done before, steps hastily down stairs, and bringing up a Bottle of Wine in his hand, interposes between them; telling them they should not thus bear a grudge one to the other, but that they should be friends; and to that end he had brought a Bottle of Wine, that they should shake hands, and drink to each other, and would not stir, off the place, till he had seen them so do, and go too, off a several way. That Scene was spoyled, however they played on, and coming to the third Scene in the fourth Act, these Fellows were to enter again; the Gentleman seeing them together, and facing each other, ran from his seat to them again; swearing that he that gave the first blow, should beat him too; _What_, said he, _cannot we be quiet here, but you two Logger-heads must spoil the Play_? This put the whole audience into such laughter and confusion, that the Play was forced to be deferred till another days action.
They staid not long in a place, the People being tired with such costly novelties as they call’d them, which made them ramble every where. Coming to _York_, they had the same success at first, as they found else where, but had like to have been scared out of their wits. For one day acting a Play, wherein the King of _Scots_ was to be murdered barbarously by his Subjects, and having intimation of the suddain coming of the Assassinates, condoled his own unhappy Fate, and condemns the treachery of his Subjects proceedings; is there no hope of Life, is there never a true Scot, that now dares stand by me? A Scot there present, seeing the murderers come in with their drawn Swords, cryed out, _there is one left still, my neen sel, yar een Country-man. Let the Deel fill my wem with smaw steans, if I make not the Loons eat my Sward as smaw as_ Saunies _durch_. And thereupon drew his broad Sword, and at them he came as desperately resolved, as if they had been real enemies; and notwithstanding the King intreated him to be patient, he grew more furious, and would have prosecuted them to death, had not his supposed Majesty held him in his arms, till they had made their escape. Not long after this they were invited to act at a Gentlemans house in the Countrey, where they acted their parts so badly, by stealing several pieces of Plate, that some of them had like to have acted their last; Our Soldier of Fortune fearing by their ends, he might come to his last, fled away privately to _London_; where he betook himself to his Pen again, altering the Scene of his former design. Observing what large encouragement some received from their Dedications, he resolved to make tryal of scribling too: the first that he wrote was indifferently well accepted of, it being an _Hodge podge_ of Translation, Transcription, Collection, and his own Composition; he Dedicating it to a Person of Quality, was largely rewarded; had he stuck here he had done well, but being infected with the base ingratitude of Mercenary Scriblers, he presented his Book to at least twenty more, with the same Dedication, the name onely altered, which brought him into so great dis-esteem amongst such as would have been his constant Benefactors, that ever after they would never accept of his Presentations.