A Trip to Scarborough; and, The Critic

by Richard Brinsley Sheridan

SNEER.
I believe you have reason for what you say, indeed.

SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY.
Besides—I can tell you it is not always so safe to leave a play in the hands of those who write themselves.

SNEER.
What, they may steal from them, hey, my dear Plagiary?

SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY.
Steal!—to be sure they may; and, egad, serve your best thoughts as gypsies do stolen children, disfigure them to make ’em pass for their own.

SNEER.
But your present work is a sacrifice to Melpomene, and he, you know, never—

SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY.
That’s no security: a dexterous plagiarist may do anything. Why, sir, for aught I know, he might take out some of the best things in my tragedy, and put them into his own comedy.

SNEER.
That might be done, I dare be sworn.

SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY.
And then, if such a person gives you the least hint or assistance, he is devilish apt to take the merit of the whole—

DANGLE.
If it succeeds.

SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY.
Ay, but with regard to this piece, I think I can hit that gentleman, for I can safely swear he never read it.