A Trip to Scarborough; and, The Critic

by Richard Brinsley Sheridan

AMANDA.
Fy, Berinthia!—my admirer! will you never learn to talk in earnest of anything?

BERINTHIA.
Why this shall be in earnest, if you please; for my part, I only tell you matter of fact.

AMANDA.
I’m sure there’s so much jest and earnest in what you say to me on this subject, I scarce know how to take it. I have just parted with Mr. Loveless; perhaps it is fancy, but I think there is an alteration in his manner which alarms me.

BERINTHIA.
And so you are jealous; is that all?

AMANDA.
That all! is jealousy, then, nothing?

BERINTHIA.
It should be nothing, if I were in your case.

AMANDA.
Why, what would you do?

BERINTHIA.
I’d cure myself.

AMANDA.
How?

BERINTHIA.
Care as little for my husband as he did for me. Look you, Amanda, you may build castles in the air, and fume, and fret, and grow thin, and lean, and pale, and ugly, if you please; but I tell you, no man worth having is true to his wife, or ever was, or ever will be so.