Capt. I'm sorry, sir, that the respect and duty which I bear to you should be so mistaken. Sir Anth. Hang your respect and duty! But come along with me. I'll write a note to Mrs. Malaprop, and you shall visit the lady directly. Her eyes shall be the Promethean torch to you—come along. I'll never forgive you, if you don't come back stark mad with rapture and impatience—if you don't, 'egad, I'll marry the girl myself. SHERIDAN. SIR PETER AND LADY TEAZLE. Sir Peter. When an old bachelor marries a young wife, what is he to expect? 'Tis now above six months since my Lady Teazle made me the happiest of men, and I have been the most miserable dog ever since. We tifted a little going to church, and fairly quarrelled before the bells were done ringing. I was more than once nearly choked with gall, during the honey-moon; and had fairly lost every satisfaction in life, before my friends had done wishing me joy. And yet I chose, with great caution, a girl bred wholly in the country, who had never known luxury beyond one silk gown, or dissipation beyond the annual gala of a race-ball. Yet now she can play her part in all the little extravagant fopperies of the town, with as good a grace as if she had never seen a bush or a grass-plot out of Grosvenor-square. I am sneered at by all my acquaintance — paragraphed in the newspapers - she dissipates my fortune, and contradicts all my humors. And yet, the worst of it is, I doubt I love her, or I should never bear all this-but I am determined never to let her know it. No, no, no! I think I'll try what a little expostulation will do. So, here she comes:― Sir P. Lady Teazle, Lady Teazle, I won't bear it. Lady Teazle. Very well, Sir Peter, you may bear it or not, just as you please; but I know I ought to have my own way in every thing; and what's more, I will. Sir P. What, madam! is there no respect due to the authority of a husband? Lady T. Why, don't I know that no woman of fashion does as she is bid after her marriage. Though I was bred in the country, I'm no stranger to that: if you wanted me to be obedient, you should have adopted me, and not married me— I'm sure you were old enough. Sir P. Ay, there it is all this extravagance? madam, what right have you to run into Lady T. I'm sure I'm not more extravagant than a woman of quality ought to be. Sir P. Madam, I'll have no more sums squandered away upon such unmeaning luxuries: you have as many flowers in your dressing-rooms as would turn the Pantheon into a green-house. Lady T. La, Sir Peter, am I to blame that flowers don't blow in cold weather? you must blame the climate and not me. I'm sure, for my part, I wish it were spring all the year round, and that roses grew under our feet. Sir P. Madam, I should not wonder at your extravagance, if you had been bred to it. Had you any of these things betore you married me? Lady T. Dear, Sir Peter, how can you be angry at those little elegant expenses? Sir P. Had you any of those little elegant expenses when you married me? Lady T. Very true, indeed; and after having married you, I should never pretend to taste again. Sir P. Very well, very well, madam; you have entirely forgot what your situation was when I first saw you. Lady T. No, no, I have not; a very disagreeable situation it was, or I'm sure I never would have married you. Sir P. You forget the humble state I took you from-the daughter of a poor country 'squire. When I came to your father's, I found you sitting at your tambour, in a linen gown, a bunch of keys at your side, and your hair combed smoothly over a roll. Lady T. Yes, I remember very well; my daily occupations were to overlook the dairy, superintend the poultry, make extracts from the family receipt book, and comb my aunt Deborah's lap-dog. Sir P. Oh, I am glad to find you have so good a recollection. Lady. T. My evening employments were to draw patterns for ruffles, which I had not materials to make up; play at Pope Joan with the curate; read a sermon to my aunt Deborah; or perhaps be stuck up at an old spinnet to thrum my father to sleep after a fox-chase. Sir P. Then you were glad to take a ride out behind the butler upon the old dock'd coach-horse. Lady T. No, no, I deny the butler and the coach-horse. Sir P. I say you did. This was your situation. Now, madam, you must have your coach vis-a-vis, and three powdered footmen to walk before your chair; and in summer, two white cats to draw you to Kensington gardens; and, instead of your living in that hole in the country, I have brought you home here, made a woman of fortune of you, a woman of quality—in short, I have made you my wife.' Lady T. Well, and there is but one thing more you can add to the obligation, and that is Sir P. To make you my widow, I suppose. Lady T. Hem! Sir P. Very well, madam, very well; I am much obliged to you for the hint. Lady T. Why then will you force me to say shocking things to you. But now we have finished our morning conversation, I presume I may go to my engagements at Lady Sneerwell's. Sir P. Lady Sneerwell!-a precious acquaintance you have made of her too, and the set that frequent her house. Such a set, mercy on us! Many a wretch who has been drawn upon a hurdle, has done less mischief than those barters of forged lies, coiners of scandal, and clippers of reputation. Lady T. How can you be so severe: I am sure they are all people of fashion, and very tenacious of reputation. Sir P. Yes, so tenacious of it, they'll not allow it to any but themselves. Lady T. I vow, Sir Peter, when I say an ill-natured thing, I mean no harm by it, for I take it for granted they'd do the same by me. Sir P. They've made you as bad as any of them, Lady T. Yes, I think I bear my part with a tolerable grace. Lady T. Well but, Sir Peter, you know you promised to come. Sir P. Well, I shall just call in to look after my own character. Lady T. Then, upon my word, you must make haste after me or you'll be too late. Sir P. I have got much by my intended expostulation. What a charming air she has ! - and how pleasingly she shows her contempt of my authority! Well, though I can't make her love me, 'tis some pleasure to tease her a little; and I think she never appears to such advantage, as when she is doing everything to vex and plague me. SHERIDAN. PATENT AND DOWLAS. Patent. Walk in, sır; your servant, sir-have you any particular business with me? Dowlas. Yes, sir, my friends have lately discovered that I have a genius for the stage. Patent. Oh, you'd be a player, sir; did you ever play? Dowlas. No, sir, but I flatter myself Patent. I hope not, sir; flattering one's-self is the very worst kind of hypocrisy. Dowlas. You'll excuse me, sir. Patent. Ay, sir, if you'll excuse me for not flattering you-1 always speak my mind. Dowlas. I dare say you will like my manner, sir. Patent. No manner of doubt, sir --- -I dare say I shall. Pray, sir with which of the ladies are you in love? Dowlas. In love, sir!-ladies! [Looking round.] Patent. Ay, Miss Comedy, or Dame Tragedy? Donlas. I'm vastly fond of Tragedy, sir. Patent. Very well, sir, and where is your forte? Patent. I say, sir, what is your department? Dowlas. Department? Do you mean my lodgings, sir? Patent. Your lodgings, sir? no, not I; ha, ha, ha! I should be glad to know what department you would wish to possess in the tragic walk-the sighing lover, the furious hero, or the sly assassin? Dowlas. Sir, I should like to play King Richard the Third. Patent. An excellent character indeed and I dare say you will play it well, sir. a very good character; Dowlas. I hope you'll have no reason to complain, sir. Patent. I hope not. Well, sir, have you got any favourite passage ready? Dowlas. I have it all by heart, sir. Patent. You have, sir, have you? I shall be glad to hear you. hem-hem. [Clearing his throat.] Dowlas. Hem What, will the asspiring blood of Lancaster Sink in the ground-I thought it would have mounted. See how my sword weeps for the poor king's death; Oh! may such purple tears be always shed On those who wish the downfal of our house; If there be any spark of life yet remaining I that have neither pity, love, nor fear. Patent. Hold, sir, hold-in pity hold, za, za, za, sir — sir, why, sır, 'tis not like humanity. You won't find me so great a barbarian as Richard: you say he had neither pity, love, nor fear; now, sir, you will find that I am possessed of all these feelings for you at present — I pity your conceit, I love to speak my mind; and—I fear you'll never make a player. Dowlas. Do you think so, sir? Patent. Do I think so, sir! Yes, I know so, sir! Now, sir, only look at yourself- your two legs kissing as if they had fallen in love with one another-and your arms dingle dangle, like the |