A Trip to Scarborough; and, The Critic

by Richard Brinsley Sheridan

Enter DON FEROLO WHISKERANDOS.

DON FEROLO WHISKERANDOS.
My beauteous enemy!—

PUFF.
O dear, ma’am, you must start a great deal more than that! Consider, you had just determined in favour of duty—when, in a moment, the sound of his voice revives your passion—overthrows your resolution—destroys your obedience. If you don’t express all that in your start, you do nothing at all.

TILNURINA.
Well, we’ll try again.

DANGLE.
Speaking from within has always a fine effect.

SNEER.
Very.

DON FEROLO WHISKERANDOS.
My conquering Tilburina! How! is’t thus We meet? why are thy looks averse? what means That falling tear—that frown of boding woe? Ha! now indeed I am a prisoner! Yes, now I feel the galling weight of these Disgraceful chains—which, cruel Tilburina! Thy doting captive gloried in before.—But thou art false, and Whiskerandos is undone!

TILNURINA.
O no! how little dost thou know thy Tilburina!

DON FEROLO WHISKERANDOS.
Art thou then true?—Begone cares, doubts, and fears, I make you all a present to the winds; And if the winds reject you—try the waves.

PUFF.
The wind, you know, is the established receiver of all stolen sighs, and cast-off griefs and apprehensions.