BOY. But father—there wasn’t any breakfast for breakfast!
TRIP. Now I ask you, Mrs. Triplet—how am I to write comic scenes, if you let Lysimachus and Roxalana there put the heavy business in every five minutes?
MRS. T. Forgive them, the poor things are hungry!
TRIP. Then they must learn to be hungry in another room. They shan’t cling round my pen and paralyze it, just when it is going to make all our fortunes (rises); but you women have no consideration—send ’em all to bed, every man Jack of ’em (children raise a doleful cry). Hungry! hungry! Is that a proper expression to use before a father who is sitting down (seats himself), all gaiety—and hilarity to write a Com— a Com— (chokes)? Where’s the youngest—where’s Cleopatra? (Mrs. T. brings child to him—he takes her on his knee.)
GIRL. Father, I’m not so very hungry!
BOY (who has come to his Father). And I’m not hungry at all—I had a piece of bread and butter yesterday!
TRIP. Wife; they’ll drive me mad!
BOY (sotto voce). Mother; father made us hungry out of his book.
GIRL. Is it a cookery book, father?
TRIP. Ha! ha! is my comedy a cookery book? The young rogues say more good things than I do—that is the worst of it. Wife, I took that sermon I wrote—