A Trip to Scarborough; and, The Critic

by Richard Brinsley Sheridan

PUFF.
True.—Now enter Tilburina!

SNEER.
Egad, the business comes on quick here.

PUFF.
Yes, sir—now she comes in stark mad in white satin.

SNEER.
Why in white satin?

PUFF.
O Lord, sir—when a heroine goes mad, she always goes into white satin.—Don’t she, Dangle?

DANGLE.
Always—it’s a rule.

PUFF.
Yes—here it is—[Looking at the book.] Enter Tilburina stark mad in white satin, and her confidant stark mad in white linen. Enter TILBURINA and CONFIDANT, mad, according to custom.

SNEER.
But, what the deuce! is the confidant to be mad too?

PUFF.
To be sure she is: the confidant is always to do whatever her mistress does; weep when she weeps, smile when she smiles, go mad when she goes mad.—Now, Madam Confidant—but keep your madness in the background, if you please. Tilb. The wind whistles—the moon rises—see, They have kill’d my squirrel in his cage: Is this a grasshopper?—Ha! no; it is my Whiskerandos—you shall not keep him—I know you have him in your pocket—An oyster may be cross’d in love!—who says A whale’s a bird?—Ha! did you call, my love?—He’s here! he’s there!—He’s everywhere! Ah me! he’s nowhere! [Exit.]

PUFF.
There, do you ever desire to see anybody madder than that?