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Scarborough and the Critic by Richard Brinsley Sheridan
page 24 of 137 (17%)
_Lord Fop_. I may say so; love's the devil indeed, Ned.
_Re-enter_ SERVANT, _with_ PROBE.
_Ser_. Here's Mr. Probe, sir, was just going by the door.
_Lord Fop_. He's the welcomest man alive.
_Probe_. Stand by, stand by, stand by; pray, gentlemen,
stand by. Lord have mercy upon us, did you never see a man run
through the body before?--Pray stand by.
_Lord Fop_. Ah, Mr. Probe, I'm a dead man.
_Probe_. A dead man, and I by! I should laugh to see that,
egad.
_Love_. Pr'ythee don't stand prating, but look upon his
wound.
_Probe_. Why, what if I don't look upon his wound this hour,
sir?
_Love_. Why, then he'll bleed to death, sir.
_Probe_. Why, then I'll fetch him to life again, sir.
_Love_. 'Slife! he's run through the body, I tell thee.
_Probe_. I wish he was run through the heart, and I should
get the more credit by his cure. Now I hope you are satisfied?
Come, now let me come at him--now let me come at him.--
[_Viewing his wound._] Oops I what a gash is here! why, sir,
a man may drive a coach and six horses into your body.
_Lord Fop_. Oh!
_Probe_. Why, what the devil have you run the gentleman
through with--a scythe?--[_Aside_.] A little scratch between
the skin and the ribs, that's all.
_Love_. Let me see his wound.
_Probe_. Then you shall dress it, sir; for if anybody looks
upon it I won't.
_Love_. Why, thou art the veriest coxcomb I ever saw!
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