A Trip to Scarborough; and, The Critic

by Richard Brinsley Sheridan

Enter BERINTHIA.

BERINTHIA.
What, in the name of Jove, is the matter with you?

AMANDA.
The matter, Berinthia! I’m almost mad; I’m plagued to death.

BERINTHIA.
Who is it that plagues you?

AMANDA.
Who do you think should plague a wife but her husband?

BERINTHIA.
O, ho! is it come to that?—We shall have you wish yourself a widow, by-and-by.

AMANDA.
Would I were anything but what I am! A base, ungrateful man, to use me thus!

BERINTHIA.
What, has he given you fresh reason to suspect his wandering?

AMANDA.
Every hour gives me reason.

BERINTHIA.
And yet, Amanda, you perhaps at this moment cause in another’s breast the same tormenting doubts and jealousies which you feel so sensibly yourself.