A Trip to Scarborough; and, The Critic

by Richard Brinsley Sheridan

DANGLE.
No, I don’t, upon my word.

SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY.
Yes, yes, you do, upon my soul!—it certainly don’t fall off, I assure you.—No, no; it don’t fall off.

DANGLE.
Now, Mrs. Dangle, didn’t you say it struck you in the same light?

MRS. DANGLE.
No, indeed, I did not.—I did not see a fault in any part of the play, from the beginning to the end.

SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY.
Upon my soul, the women are the best judges after all!

MRS. DANGLE.
Or, if I made any objection, I am sure it was to nothing in the piece; but that I was afraid it was on the whole, a little too long.

SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY.
Pray, madam, do you speak as to duration of time; or do you mean that the story is tediously spun out?

MRS. DANGLE.
O Lud! no.—I speak only with reference to the usual length of acting plays.

SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY.
Then I am very happy—very happy indeed—because the play is a short play, a remarkably short play. I should not venture to differ with a lady on a point of taste; but on these occasions, the watch, you know, is the critic.

MRS. DANGLE.
Then, I suppose, it must have been Mr. Dangle’s drawling manner of reading it to me.