MRS. T. And beautiful it was, James.
TRIP. I took it to the Reverend Gentleman, and he would not have it, he said it was too hard upon sin for the present day (dashes at the paper). Ah! if my friend Mrs. Woffington would but leave this stupid comedy and take to tragedy, things would smile again.
MRS. T. Oh, James, how can you expect anything from that woman? You won’t believe what all the world says—you measure folk by your own good heart.
TRIP. I haven’t a good heart, I spoke like a brute to you just now.
MRS. T. Never mind, James, I wonder how you put up with me at all! a sick useless creature. I often wish to die, for your sake—I know you would do better—I am such a weight round your neck. (Triplet takes Mrs. T. to chair—then returns with energy to his comedy—boy brings violin.)
BOY. Play us a tune on the fiddle, father!
MRS. T. Ay do, husband! that often helps you in your writing. (Triplet plays a merry tune dolefully.)
TRIP. It won’t do, music must be in the heart, or it will never come out of the fingers (puts fiddle down—boy takes it and puts it in the cradle). No! let us be serious and finish the comedy—perhaps it hitches because I forgot to invoke Thalia—the Muse of Comedy, Mrs. Triplet; she must be a black-hearted jade if she won’t lend a broad grin to a poor devil starving in the middle of his hungry little ones.
MRS. T. Heathen goddesses can’t help us. We had better pray to heaven to look down on us and our children.
TRIP. (sullenly). You forget, Mrs. Triplet, that our street is very narrow, and the opposite houses are very high.