A Trip to Scarborough; and, The Critic

by Richard Brinsley Sheridan

Enter TOM FASHION and LORY.

TOM FASHION.
So here’s our inheritance, Lory, if we can but get into possession. But methinks the seat of our family looks like Noah’s ark, as if the chief part on’t were designed for the fowls of the air, and the beasts of the field.

LORY.
Pray, sir, don’t let your head run upon the orders of building here: get but the heiress, let the devil take the house.

TOM FASHION.
Get but the house, let the devil take the heiress! I say.—But come, we have no time to squander; knock at the door.—[LORY knocks two or three times at the gate.] What the devil! have they got no ears in this house?—Knock harder.

LORY.
Egad, sir, this will prove some enchanted castle; we shall have the giant come out by-and-by, with his club, and beat our brains out. [Knocks again.]

TOM FASHION.
Hush, they come.

SERVANT.
[Within. ] Who is there?

LORY.
Open the door and see: is that your country breeding?

SERVANT.
Ay, but two words to that bargain.—Tummus, is the blunderbuss primed?

TOM FASHION.
Ouns! give ’em good words, Lory,—or we shall be shot here a fortune catching.