St. Patricks Day | Page 9

hours to live.
Just. O mercy! does he know my distemper?
Rosy. I believe not.
Just. Tell him 'tis black arsenic they have given me.
Rosy. Geneable illi arsnecca.
_O'Con_. Pisonatus.
Just. What does he say?
Rosy. He says you are poisoned.
Just. We know that; but what will be the effect?

Rosy. Quid effectum?
_O'Con_. Diable tutellum.
Rosy. He says you'll die presently.
Just. Oh, horrible! What, no antidote?
_O'Con_. Curum benakere bono fullum.
Just. What, does he say I must row in a boat to Fulham?
Rosy. He says he'll undertake to cure you for three thousand pounds.
_Mrs. Bri_. Three thousand pounds! three thousand halters!--No, lovee,
you shall never submit to such impositions; die at once, and be a
customer to none of them.
Just. I won't die, Bridget--I don't like death.
_Mrs. Bri_. Psha! there is nothing in it: a moment, and it is over.
Just. Ay, but it leaves a numbness behind that lasts a plaguy long time.
_Mrs. Bri_. O my dear, pray consider the will.
Enter LAURETTA.
Lau. O my father, what is this I hear?
_O'Con_. Quiddam seomriam deos tollam rosam.
Rosy. The doctor is astonished at the sight of your fair daughter.
Just. How so?
_O'Con_. Damsellum livivum suvum rislibani.
Rosy. He says that he has lost his heart to her, and that if you will give

him leave to pay his addresses to the young lady, and promise your
consent to the union, if he should gain her affections, he will, on those
conditions, cure you instantly, without fee or reward.
Just. The devil! did he say all that in so few words? What a fine
language it is! Well, I agree, if he can prevail on the girl.-- [Aside.] And
that I am sure he never will.
Rosy. Greal.
_O'Con_. Writhum bothum.
Rosy. He says you must give this under your hand, while he writes you
a miraculous receipt. [Both sit down to write.]
Lau. Do, mamma, tell me the meaning of this.
_Mrs. Bri_. Don't speak to me, girl.--Unnatural parent!
Just. There, doctor; there's what he requires.
Rosy. And here's your receipt: read it yourself.
Just. Hey! what's here? plain English!
Rosy. Read it out; a wondrous nostrum, I'll answer for it.
Just. [Reads.] _In reading this you are cured, by your affectionate
son-in-law,_ O'CONNOR.--Who in the name of Beelzebub, sirrah, who
are you?
_O'Con_. Your affectionate son-in-law, O'Connor, and your very
humble servant, Humphrey Hum.
Just. 'Tis false, you dog! you are not my son-in-law; for I'll be poisoned
again, and you shall be hanged.--I'll die, sirrah, and leave Bridget my
estate.
_Mrs. Bri_. Ay, pray do, my dear, leave me your estate; I'm sure he

deserves to be hanged.
Just. He does, you say!--Hark'ee, Bridget, you showed such a tender
concern for me when you thought me poisoned, that, for the future, I
am resolved never to take your advice again in anything.-- [To
LIEUTENANT O'CONNOR] So, do you hear, sir, you are an Irishman
and a soldier, ain't you?
_O'Con_. I am sir, and proud of both.
Just. The two things on earth I most hate; so I tell you what-- renounce
your country and sell your commission, and I'll forgive you.
_O'Con_. Hark'ee, Mr. Justice--if you were not the father of my
Lauretta, I would pull your nose for asking the first, and break your
bones for desiring the second.
Rosy. Ay, ay, you're right.
Just. Is he? then I'm sure I must be wrong.--Here, sir, I give my
daughter to you, who are the most impudent dog I ever saw in my life.
_O'Con_. Oh, sir, say what you please; with such a gift as Lauretta,
every word is a compliment.
_Mrs. Bri_. Well, my lovee, I think this will be a good subject for us to
quarrel about the rest of our lives.
Just. Why, truly, my dear,--I think so, though we are seldom at a loss
for that.
Rosy. This is all as it should be.--My Alexander, I give you joy, and
you, my little god-daughter; and now my sincere wish is, that you may
make just such a wife as my poor dear Dolly. [Exeunt omnes.]

End of Project Gutenberg's St. Patrick's Day, by Richard Brinsley
Sheridan

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