Tubal. She’s taken something more.
Shylock. What’s that?
Tubal. Your purse.
Shylock. You cannot mean she’s robbed her poor old father?
Tubal. I hate strong language, but I fancy—rather.
Shylock. Unfeeling child! who’s left her sire to sigh
Without or tie or prop, or property.”
This is what the fast young men of London call brilliant writing. All this meaningless clatter of words, to produce which requires little more skill than to clash the cymbals in the orchestra, there are crowds of young fellows about the theatres who would give a great deal if they had the brains to emulate. It is out of such slender materials that Robson works up his effects, making the glitter pass for gold, the trash for truth, the bad grammar for good sense, and the abortive pun for pointed wit. Give us good puns by all means, if there is nothing better to be had, and we shall laugh at them; but save us from word-torture as incomprehensible, dull, and valueless as the anagrams which used to puzzle and amuse our ancestors.
Cease your funning;
Force of punning