“It is for the like of you that these Shakespeare Memorialists are sending their strolling players around the country, to set the goodwives wondering about Shakespeare, as they wondered about Diego’s nose in the tale of the learned Hafen Slawkenbergius.”
“Surely the wonderful nose was Cyrano’s?” said my mother. “Cyrano’s or Diego’s, ’tis all one,” cried my father in a passion. “Zooks! Cannot a man use a plain analogy but his wife must interrupt him with her foolish questions about it? May the eternal curse of all the devils in——”
“Our armies swore terribly in Flanders,” cried my uncle Toby, “but nothing to this.”
“As you please, Mr. Shandy,” said my mother.
“Where was I?” said my father, in some confusion, and letting his hand fall upon my uncle Toby’s shoulder in sign of repentance for his violent cursing.
“You was at Slawkenbergius,” replied my uncle Toby.
“No, no, brother, Shakespeare, I was speaking of Shakespeare, and how they were going to carry him round the country because they had not money enough to build a theatre for him in London.”
“But could they not hire one?” said my uncle Toby.
“No, for my Lord Lytton said that would be too speculative a venture.”