A Trip to Scarborough; and, The Critic

by Richard Brinsley Sheridan

SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY.
Oh, I know—

DANGLE.
He has a ready turn for ridicule—his wit costs him nothing.

SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY.
No, egad—or I should wonder how he came by it. [Aside.]

MRS. DANGLE.
Because his jest is always at the expense of his friend. [Aside.]

DANGLE.
But, Sir Fretful, have you sent your play to the managers yet?—or can I be of any service to you?

SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY.
No, no, I thank you: I believe the piece had sufficient recommendation with it.—I thank you though.—I sent it to the manager of Covent Garden Theatre this morning.

SNEER.
I should have thought now, that it might have been cast (as the actors call it) better at Drury Lane.

SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY.
O Lud! no—never send a play there while I live—hark’ee! [Whispers SNEER.]

SNEER.
Writes himself!—I know he does.

SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY.
I say nothing—I take away from no man’s merit—am hurt at no man’s good fortune—I say nothing.—But this I will say—through all my knowledge of life, I have observed—that there is not a passion so strongly rooted in the human heart as envy.