Stomach to dine to-day." To which the enraged lady answers: "O never fear
that: you will never want a Dinner till you have dined at all the
Eating-houses round.--No one shuts their Doors against you the first time;
and I scarce think you are so kind, seldom to trouble them a second." And
that the good landlady had some grounds for her wrath is but too apparent
when she announces: "Well, I'm resolv'd when you are gone away (which I
heartily hope will be very soon) I'll hang over my Door in great red
Letters, _No Lodging for Poets_ ... My Floor is all spoil'd with Ink, my
Windows with Verses, and my Door has been almost beat down with Duns.'
While the landlady is still fuming, enters our author's man, Jack.

"_Jack_. An't please your Honour, I have been at my Lord's,
and his Lordship thanks you for the Favour you have offer'd of
reading your Play to him; but he has such a prodigious deal of
Business he begs to be excus'd. I have been with Mr _Keyber_
too: he made no Answer at all...."

"_Luckless_. Jack.

"_Jack_. Sir.

"_Luckless_. Fetch my other Hat hither. Carry it to the
Pawnbroker's.

"_Jack_. To your Honour's own Pawnbroker.

"_Luckless_. Ay And in thy way home call at the Cook's Shop.
So, one way or other I find, my Head must always provide for my
Belly."