The Lame Lover: A Comedy in Three Acts

by Samuel Foote

SERJEANT.

But what is there serious in this, dost think I mind such trifles?

Sir LUKE.

Hold your tongue, you fool, for a moment—then throwing her Teresa aside—upon my soul she is prodigious fine every where here—was it my fault?

SERJEANT.

My fault! my fault! I see no fault in all this.

Sir LUKE.

[Hatching a cry.] No! why then my dear friend, do you know that I was so unworthy, so profligate, so abandon'd—as to—[rises] say no more, the business is done.

SERJEANT.

Ay, indeed!