style="font-size:15px;"> Enter Clinket and her maid bearing a writing-desk on her back. Clinket writing, her head dress stain'd with ink, and pens stuck in her hair.
Maid. I had as good carry a raree-show about the streets. Oh! how my back akes!
Clink. What are the labours of the back to those of the brain? thou scandal to the muses. I have now lost a thought worth a folio, by thy impertinance.
Maid. Have not I got a crick in my back already, that will make me good for nothing, with lifting your great books?
Clink. Folio's, call them, and not great books, thou monster of impropriety: But have patience, and I will remember the three gallery-tickets I promis'd thee at my new tragedy.
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