TRIP. Ha! ha! is my comedy a cookery book? The young rogues say more good things than I do--that is the worst of it. Wife, I took that sermon I wrote-- 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. MRS. T. James! TRIP. How can heaven see an honest man and his family in such an out-of-the-way place as this. MRS. T. Oh! what words are these? TRIP. Have we given honesty a fair trial? yes or no (_walking in great agitation_)! MRS. T. No, not till we die as we have lived. TRIP. I _suppose_ heaven is just, I can't _know_ it, till it sends me an angel to take my children's part; they cry to me for bread, I have nothing to give them but hard words. God knows it has taken a great deal to break my heart, but it is broken at last, broken--broken--(_he sobs with head on his hands on table_). [_Enter Woffington speaking, L. D._] WOFF. Wasn't somebody inquiring after an angel? Here I am! TRIP. Mrs. Woffington! [_Woff. seeing Triplet's distress, retreats; but presently comes back._]