Scarborough and the Critic by Richard Brinsley Sheridan
page 24 of 137 (17%)
page 24 of 137 (17%)
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_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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