A Trip to Scarborough; and, The Critic

by Richard Brinsley Sheridan

PROBE.
Stand by, stand by, stand by; pray, gentlemen, stand by. Lord have mercy upon us, did you never see a man run through the body before?—Pray stand by.

LORD FOPPINGTON.
Ah, Mr. Probe, I’m a dead man.

PROBE.
A dead man, and I by! I should laugh to see that, egad.

LOVELESS.
Pr’ythee don’t stand prating, but look upon his wound.

PROBE.
Why, what if I don’t look upon his wound this hour, sir?

LOVELESS.
Why, then he’ll bleed to death, sir.

PROBE.
Why, then I’ll fetch him to life again, sir.

LOVELESS.
’Slife! he’s run through the body, I tell thee.

PROBE.
I wish he was run through the heart, and I should get the more credit by his cure. Now I hope you are satisfied? Come, now let me come at him—now let me come at him.—[Viewing his wound.] Oops, what a gash is here! why, sir, a man may drive a coach and six horses into your body.

LORD FOPPINGTON.
Oh!