A Trip to Scarborough; and, The Critic

by Richard Brinsley Sheridan

LORD FOPPINGTON.
And why dost thou ask me so many impertinent questions?

SIR TUNBELLY CLUMSY.
Because I’ll make you answer ’em, before I have done with you, you rascal, you!

LORD FOPPINGTON.
Before Gad, all the answer I can make to them is, that you are a very extraordinary old fellow, stap my vitals.

SIR TUNBELLY CLUMSY.
Nay, if thou art joking deputy-lieutenants, we know how to deal with you.—Here, draw a warrant for him immediately.

LORD FOPPINGTON.
A warrant! What the devil is’t thou wouldst be at, old gentleman?

SIR TUNBELLY CLUMSY.
I would be at you, sirrah, (if my hands were not tied as a magistrate,) and with these two double fists beat your teeth down your throat, you dog, you! [Driving him.]

LORD FOPPINGTON.
And why wouldst thou spoil my face at that rate?

SIR TUNBELLY CLUMSY.
For your design to rob me of my daughter, villain.

LORD FOPPINGTON.
Rob thee of thy daughter! Now do I begin to believe I am in bed and asleep, and that all this is but a dream. Pr’ythee, old father, wilt thou give me leave to ask thee one question?

SIR TUNBELLY CLUMSY.
I can’t tell whether I will or not, till I know what it is.