A Trip to Scarborough; and, The Critic

by Richard Brinsley Sheridan

AMANDA.
Plays, I must confess, have some small charms. What do you think of that you saw last night?

LOVELESS.
To say truth, I did not mind it much—my attention was for some time taken off to admire the workmanship of Nature in the face of a young lady who sat at some distance from me, she was so exquisitely handsome.

AMANDA.
So exquisitely handsome!

LOVELESS.
Why do you repeat my words, my dear?

AMANDA.
Because you seemed to speak them with such pleasure, I thought I might oblige you with their echo.

LOVELESS.
Then you are alarmed, Amanda?

AMANDA.
It is my duty to be so when you are in danger.

LOVELESS.
You are too quick in apprehending for me. I viewed her with a world of admiration, but not one glance of love.

AMANDA.
Take heed of trusting to such nice distinctions. But were your eyes the only things that were inquisitive? Had I been in your place, my tongue, I fancy, had been curious too. I should have asked her where she lived—yet still without design—who was she, pray?

LOVELESS.
Indeed I cannot tell.