Croaker. A plague of plagues, we can't both be right. I ought to be sorry, or I ought to be glad. My hat must be on my head, or my hat must be off.
Mrs. Croaker. Certainly; in two opposite opinions, if one be perfectly reasonable, the other can't be perfectly right.
Honeyw. And why may not both be right, madam; Mr. Croaker in earnestly seeking redress, and you in waiting the event with good humour? Pray let me see the letter again. I have it. This letter requires twenty guineas to be left at the bar of the Talbot inn. If it be indeed an incendiary letter, what if you and I, sir, go there; and when the writer comes to be paid his expected booty, seize him?
Croaker. My dear friend, it's the very thing; the very thing. While I walk by the door, you shall plant yourself in ambush near the bar; burst out upon the miscreant like a masqued battery; extort a confession at once, and so hang him up by surprise.
Honeyw. Yes; but I would not choose to exercise too much severity. It is my maxim, sir, that crimes generally punish themselves.
Croaker. Well, but we may upbraid him a little, I suppose? (Ironically.)
Honeyw. Ay, but not punish him too rigidly.
Croaker. Well, well, leave that to my own benevolence.
Honeyw. Well, I do; but remember that universal benevolence is the first law of nature.
[Exeunt Honeywood and Mrs. Croaker.