A Trip to Scarborough; and, The Critic

by Richard Brinsley Sheridan

DANGLE.
Hey!—why, I thought those fellows had been asleep?

PUFF.
Only a pretence; there’s the art of it: they were spies of Lord Burleigh’s.

SNEER.
But isn’t it odd they never were taken notice of, not even by the commander-in-chief?

PUFF.
O Lud, sir! if people who want to listen, or overhear, were not always connived at in a tragedy, there would be no carrying on any plot in the world.

DANGLE.
That’s certain.

PUFF.
But take care, my dear Dangle! the morning gun is going to fire. [Cannon fires.]

DANGLE.
Well, that will have a fine effect!

PUFF.
I think so, and helps to realize the scene.—[Cannon twice.] What the plague! three morning guns! there never is but one!—Ay, this is always the way at the theatre: give these fellows a good thing, and they never know when to have done with it.—You have no more cannon to fire?

UNDER PROMPTER.
[Within.] No, sir.

PUFF.
Now, then, for soft music.