Rome Seizes The Trident The Defeat Of

Carthaginian Seapower And The Forging Of The

Roman Empire Santis download

https://ebookbell.com/product/rome-seizes-the-trident-the-defeat-
of-carthaginian-seapower-and-the-forging-of-the-roman-empire-
santis-11956428

Explore and download more ebooks at ebookbell.com

Here are some recommended products that we believe you will be
interested in. You can click the link to download.

Seized By The Mafia King An Age Gap Stolen Bride Romance London Mafia
Bosses Evie Rose

https://ebookbell.com/product/seized-by-the-mafia-king-an-age-gap-
stolen-bride-romance-london-mafia-bosses-evie-rose-230698670

Seized By The Mafia King An Age Gap Stolen Bride Romance London Mafia
Bosses Evie Rose

https://ebookbell.com/product/seized-by-the-mafia-king-an-age-gap-
stolen-bride-romance-london-mafia-bosses-evie-rose-230698664

Nicks Secret Baby Saint Family Christmas Book 2 Nikki Rome

https://ebookbell.com/product/nicks-secret-baby-saint-family-
christmas-book-2-nikki-rome-46235930

Jacks Second Chance Saint Family Christmas Book 1 Nikki Rome

https://ebookbell.com/product/jacks-second-chance-saint-family-
christmas-book-1-nikki-rome-46250528
Rome Strategy Of Empire I James Lacey

https://ebookbell.com/product/rome-strategy-of-empire-i-james-
lacey-47475200

Rome An Empire Of Many Nations New Perspectives On Ethnic Diversity

And Cultural Identity Jonathan J Price

https://ebookbell.com/product/rome-an-empire-of-many-nations-new-
perspectives-on-ethnic-diversity-and-cultural-identity-jonathan-j-
price-47505882

Rome And America Communities Of Strangers Spectacles Of Belonging Dean

Hammer

https://ebookbell.com/product/rome-and-america-communities-of-
strangers-spectacles-of-belonging-dean-hammer-47573614

Rome And Italy Titus Livy

https://ebookbell.com/product/rome-and-italy-titus-livy-47629260

Rome A Marked Men Novel Jay Crownover

https://ebookbell.com/product/rome-a-marked-men-novel-jay-
crownover-47692188
Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
think. [Sighs.
Ger. My soul! my life! 'tis you have charms powerful as numberless,
especially those of your innocency irresistible, and do surprise the
wariest heart. Such mine was, while I could call it mine, but now 'tis
yours for ever.
Hip. Well, well, get you gone then. I'll keep it safe for your sake.
Ger. Nay, you must go with me, sweetest.
Hip. Well, I see you will part with the jewel; but you will have the
keeping of the cabinet to which you commit it.
Ger. Come, come, my dearest, let us be gone: Fortune as well as
women must be taken in the humour.
As they are going out, Prue runs hastily to them.
Prue. O miss, miss! your father, it seems, is just now arrived, and is
here coming in upon you.
Hip. My father.
Enter Don Diego and Mrs. Caution.
Don. My daughter and a man!
Mrs. Caut. A man! a man in the house!
Ger. Ha! what mean these?—a Spaniard!
Hip. What shall I do? Stay—Nay, pray stir not from me; but lead me
about, as if you led me a corant.[58] [Leads her about.
Don. Is this your government, sister? and this your innocent charge,
that hath not seen the face of a man this twelvemonth? en hora
mala!
Mrs. Caut. O, sure, it is not a man! it cannot be a man! [Puts on her
spectacles.
Don. It cannot be a man! if he be not a man, he's a devil. He has
her lovingly by the hand too, valgame el cielo!
Hip. Do not seem to mind them, but dance on, or lead me about
still.
Ger. What d'ye mean by it? [Apart to Hippolita.
Don. Hey, they are frolic, a-dancing!
Mrs. Caut. Indeed, they are dancing, I think.—Why, niece!
Don. Nay, hold a little: I'll make 'em dance in the devil's name; but it
shall not be la gallarda. [Draws his sword.
Mrs. Caut. O niece! why niece! [Mrs. Caution holds him.
Ger. Do you hear her? what do you mean? [Apart to Hippolita.
Hip. Take no notice of them; but walk about still, and sing a little,
sing a corant.
Ger. I can't sing: but I'll hum, if you will.
Don. Are you so merry? well I'll be with you: en hora mala!
Mrs. Caut. O niece, niece! why niece! oh—
Don. Why, daughter, my dainty daughter! My shame! my ruin! my
plague! [Struggling, gets from Mrs. Caution, goes towards them with
his sword drawn.
Hip. Mind him not, but dance and sing on.
Ger. A pretty time to dance and sing, indeed, when I have a
Spaniard with a naked Toledo at my tail! No, pray excuse me, miss,
from fooling any longer.
Hip. [Turning about.] O, my father, my father! poor father! you are
welcome; pray give me your blessing.
Don. My blessing, en hora mala!
Hip. What! am I not your daughter, sir?
Don. My daughter! mi mal! mi muerte!
Hip. My name's Hippolita, sir: I don't own your Spanish names. But,
pray father, why do you frighten one so? you know I don't love to
see a sword: what do you mean to do with that ugly thing out?
Don. I'll show you. Traidor! ladron de mi honra! thou diest. [Runs at
Gerrard.
Ger. Not if I can help it, good Don. But by the names you give me, I
find you mistake your man: I suppose some Spaniard has affronted
you. [Draws.
Don. None but thee, ladron! and thou diest for't. [Fight.
Mrs. Caut. Oh! oh! oh!—help! help! help!
Hip. O—what, will you kill my poor dancing-master? [Kneels.
Don. A dancing-master! he's a fencing-master rather, I think. But is
he your dancing-master? umph—
Ger. So much wit and innocency were never together before. [Aside.
Don. Is he a dancing-master? [Pausing.
Mrs. Caut. Is he a dancing-master? He does not look like a dancing-
master.
Hip. Pish!—you don't know a dancing-master: you have not seen one
these threescore years, I warrant.
Mrs. Caut. No matter: but he does not look like a dancing-master.
Don. Nay, nay, dancing-masters look like gentlemen enough, sister:
but he's no dancing-master, by drawing a sword so briskly. Those
tripping outsides of gentlemen are like gentlemen enough in
everything but in drawing a sword; and since he is a gentleman, he
shall die by mine. [They fight again.
Hip. Oh! hold! hold!
Mrs. Caut. Hold! hold!—Pray, brother, let's talk with him a little first;
I warrant you I shall trap him; and if he confesses, you may kill him;
but those that confess, they say, ought to be hanged—Let's see—
Ger. Poor Hippolita! I wish I had not had this occasion of admiring
thy wit; I have increased my love, whilst I have lost my hopes; the
common fate of poor lovers. [Aside.
Mrs. Caut. Come, you are guilty, by that hanging down of your head.
Speak: are you a dancing-master? Speak, speak; a dancing-master?
Ger. Yes, forsooth, I am a dancing-master; ay, ay—
Don. How does it appear?
Hip. Why, there is his fiddle, there upon the table, father.
Mrs. Caut. No, busybody, but it is not:—that is my nephew's fiddle.
Hip. Why, he lent it to my cousin: I tell you it is his.
Mrs. Caut. Nay, it may be, indeed; he might lend it to him for aught I
know.
Don. Ay, ay: but ask him, sister, if he be a dancing-master, where.
Mrs. Caut. Pray, brother, let me alone with him, I know what to ask
him, sure.
Don. What, will you be wiser than I? nay, then stand away. Come, if
you are a dancing-master, where's your school? Donde? donde?
Mrs. Caut. Why, he'll say, may be, he has ne'er a one.
Don. Who asked you, nimble chaps? So you have put an excuse in
his head.
Ger. Indeed, sir, 'tis no excuse: I have no school.
Mrs. Caut. Well; but who sent you? how came you hither?
Ger. There I am puzzled indeed. [Aside.
Mrs. Caut. How came you hither, I say? how—
Ger. Why, how, how should I come hither?
Don. Ay, how should he come hither? Upon his legs.
Mrs. Caut. So, so! now you have put an excuse in his head too, that
you have, so you have; but stay—
Don. Nay, with your favour, mistress, I'll ask him now.
Mrs. Caut. Y'facks, but you shan't! I'll ask him, and ask you no
favour, that I will.
Don. Y'fackins, but you shan't ask him! if you go there too, look you,
you prattle-box you, I'll ask him.
Mrs. Caut. I will ask him, I say!—come!
Don. Where?
Mrs. Caut. What!
Don. Mine's a shrewd question.
Mrs. Caut. Mine's as shrewd as yours.
Don. Nay, then, we shall have it.—Come, answer me; where's your
lodging? come, come, sir.
Mrs. Caut. A shrewd question, indeed! at the Surgeons'-arms, I
warrant you; for 'tis spring-time, you know.
Don. Must you make lies for him?
Mrs. Caut. But come, sir; what's your name?—answer me to that;
come.
Don. His name! why, 'tis an easy matter to tell you a false name, I
hope.
Mrs. Caut. So! must you teach him to cheat us?
Don. Why did you say my questions were not shrewd questions,
then?
Mrs. Caut. And why would you not let me ask him the question,
then? Brother, brother, ever while you live, for all your Spanish
wisdom, let an old woman make discoveries: the young fellows
cannot cheat us in anything, I'd have you to know. Set your old
woman still to grope out an intrigue, because, you know, the mother
found her daughter in the oven. A word to the wise, brother.
Don. Come, come, leave this tattling: he has dishonoured my family,
debauched my daughter; and what if he could excuse himself? The
Spanish proverb says, excuses neither satisfy creditors nor the
injured. The wounds of honour must have blood and wounds, St.
Jago para mi! [Kisses the cross of his sword, and runs at Gerrard.
Hip. O hold, dear father! and I'll confess all.
Ger. She will not, sure, after all. [Aside.
Hip. My cousin sent him; because, as he said, he would have me
recover my dancing a little before our wedding, having made a vow
he would never marry a wife who could not dance a corant. I am
sure I was unwilling; but he would have him come, saying I was to
be his wife as soon as you came, and therefore expected obedience
from me.
Don. Indeed, the venture is most his, and the shame would be most
his; for I know here in England, 'tis not the custom for the father to
be much concerned what the daughter does; but I will be a Spaniard
still.
Hip. Did not you hear him say last night he would send me one this
morning?
Mrs. Caut. No, not I, sure. If I had, he had never come here.
Hip. Indeed, aunt, you grow old I see; your memory fails you very
much. Did not you hear him, Prue, say he would send him to me?
Prue. Yes, I'll be sworn did I.
Hip. Look you there, aunt.
Mrs. Caut. I wonder I should not remember it.
Don. Come, come, you are a doting old fool.
Mrs. Caut. So! So! the fault will be mine now. But pray, mistress,
how did he come in? I am sure I had the keys of the doors, which,
till your father came in, were not opened to-day.
Hip. He came in just after my father, I suppose.
Mrs. Caut. It might be, indeed, while the porters brought in the
things, and I was talking with you.
Don. O, might he so, forsooth! you are a brave governante! Look
you, you a duenna, voto!—and not know who comes in and out!
Mrs. Caut So! 'tis my fault, I know.
Don. Your maid was in the room with you; was she not, child?
Hip. Yes, indeed, and indeed, father, all the while.
Don. Well, child, I am satisfied then.—But I hope he does not use
the dancing-master's tricks, of squeezing your hands, setting your
legs and feet, by handling your thighs and seeing your legs.
Hip. No, indeed, father: I'd give him a box on the ear if he should.
Don. Poor innocent!—Well, I am contented you should learn to
dance, since, for aught I know, you shall be married to-morrow, or
the next day at farthest: by that time you may recover a corant—a
saraband I would say.[59] And since your cousin, too, will have a
dancing wife, it shall be so; and I'll see you dance myself. You shall
be my charge these two days, and then I dare venture you in the
hand of any dancing-master, even a saucy French dancing-master,
look you.
Mrs. Caut. Well, have a care, though; for this man is not dressed like
a dancing master.
Don. Go, go, you dote; are they not (for the most part) better
dressed and prouder than many a good gentleman? you would be
wiser than I, would you, cuerno?
Mrs. Caut. Well, I say only, look to't, look to't.
Don. Hey, hey! Come, friend, to your business; teach her her lesson
over again; let's see.
Hip. Come, master.
Don. Come, come, let's see your English method; I understand
something of dancing myself—come.
Hip. Come, master.
Ger. I shall betray you yet, dearest miss; for I know not a step: I
could never dance. [Apart to Hippolita.
Hip. No!
Don. Come, come, child.
Hip. Indeed I'm ashamed, father.
Don. You must not be ashamed, child; you'll never dance well if you
are ashamed.
Hip. Indeed, I can't help it, father.
Don. Come, come, I say, go to't.
Hip. Indeed I can't, father, before you: 'tis my first lesson, and I shall
do it so ill.—Pray, good father, go into the next room for this once;
and the next time my master comes, you shall see I shall be
confident enough.
Don. Poor, foolish, innocent creature!—Well, well, I will, child. Who
but a Spanish kind of a father could have so innocent a daughter in
England?—Well, I would fain see any one steal or debauch my
daughter from me.
Hip. Nay, won't you go, father?
Don. Yes, yes, I go, child: we will all go but your maid.—You can
dance before your maid?
Hip. Yes, yes, father: a maid at most times with her mistress is
nobody. [Exeunt Diego and Mrs. Caution.
Ger. He peeps yet at the door.
Hip. Nay, father, you peep; indeed you must not see me. When we
have done, you shall come in. [She pulls the door to.
Prue. Indeed, little mistress, like the young kitten, you see you
played with your prey till you had almost lost it.
Hip. 'Tis true, a good old mouser like you had taken it up, and run
away with it presently.
Ger. Let me adore you, dearest miss, and give you—[Going to
embrace her.
Hip. No, no embracing, good master! that ought to be the last lesson
you are to teach me, I have heard.
Ger. Though an aftergame be the more tedious and dangerous, 'tis
won, miss, with the more honour and pleasure: for all that, I repent
we were put to't. The coming in of your father, as he did, was the
most unlucky thing that ever befel me.
Hip. What then, you think I would have gone with you?
Ger. Yes; and you will go with me yet, I hope.—Courage, miss! we
have yet an opportunity; and the gallery-window is yet open.
Hip. No, no; if I went, I would go for good and all: but now my
father will soon come in again, and may quickly overtake us.
Besides, now I think on't, you are a stranger to me; I know not
where you live, nor whither you might carry me. For aught I know,
you might be a spirit, and carry me to Barbadoes.
Ger. No, dear miss, I would carry you to court, the playhouses, and
Hyde-park—
Hip. Nay, I know 'tis the trick of all you that spirit women away, to
speak 'em mighty fair at first: but when you have got 'em in your
clutches, you carry 'em into Yorkshire, Wales, or Cornwall, which is
as bad as to Barbadoes; and rather than be served so, I would be a
prisoner in London still as I am.
Ger. I see the air of this town, without the pleasures of it, is enough
to infect women with an aversion for the country. Well, miss, since it
seems you have some diffidence in me, give me leave to visit you as
your dancing-master, now you have honoured me with the
character; and under that I may have your father's permission to see
you, till you may better know me and my heart, and have a better
opportunity to reward it.
Hip. I am afraid to know your heart would require a great deal of
time; and my father intends to marry me very suddenly to my
cousin, who sent you hither.
Get. Pray, sweet miss, let us make the better use of our time if it be
short. But how shall we do with that cousin of yours in the mean
time? we must needs charm him.
Hip. Leave that to me.
Ger. But (what's worse) how shall I be able to act a dancing-master,
who ever wanted inclination and patience to learn myself?
Hip. A dancing-school in half an hour will furnish you with terms of
the art. Besides, Love (as I have heard say) supplies his scholars
with all sorts of capacities they have need of, in spite of nature:—but
what has love to do with you?
Ger. Love, indeed, has made a grave gouty statesmen fight duels,
the soldier fly from his colours, a pedant a fine gentlemen, nay, and
the very lawyer a poet; and, therefore, may make me a dancing-
master.
Hip. If he were your master.
Ger. I'm sure, dearest miss, there is nothing else which I cannot do
for you already; and, therefore, may hope to succeed in that.
Re-enter Don Diego.
Don. Come, have you done?
Hip. O, my father again!
Don. Come, now let us see you dance.
Hip. Indeed I am not perfect yet: pray excuse me till the next time
my master comes. But when must he come again, father?
Don. Let me see—friend, you must needs come after dinner again,
and then at night again, and so three times to-morrow too. If she be
not married to-morrow, (which I am to consider of,) she will dance a
corant in twice or thrice teaching more; will she not? for 'tis but a
twelvemonth since she came from Hackney-school.
Ger. We will lose no time, I warrant you, sir, if she be to be married
to-morrow.
Don. True, I think she may be married to-morrow; therefore, I would
not have you lose any time, look you.
Ger. You need not caution me, I warrant you, sir.—Sweet scholar,
your humble servant: I will not fail you immediately after dinner.
Don. No, no, pray do not; and I will not fail to satisfy you very well,
look you.
Hip. He does not doubt his reward, father, for his pains. If you
should not, I would make that good to him.
Don. Come, let us go in to your aunt: I must talk with you both
together, child.
Hip. I follow you, sir. [Exeunt Gerrard and Don Diego.
Prue. Here's the gentlewoman o' th' next house come to see you,
mistress.
Hip. [Aside.] She's come, as if she came expressly to sing the new
song she sung last night. I must hear it; for 'tis to my purpose now.
—
Enter Lady.
Madam, your servant: I dreamt all night of the song you sung last;
the new song against delays in love, Pray, let's hear it again.
Lady. [Sings.]
Since we poor slavish women know
Our men we cannot pick and choose,
To him we like why say we no,
And both our time and lover lose?
With feigned repulses and delays
 A lover's appetite we pall;
And if too long the gallant stays,
His stomach's gone for good and all,

Or our impatient amorous guest

Unknown to us away may steal,
And rather than stay for a feast,
Take up with some coarse ready meal
When opportunity is kind,
Let prudent women be so too;
And if the man be to your mind,
Till needs you must, ne'er let him go.

The match soon made is happy still,

For only love has there to do.
Let no one marry 'gainst her will,
But stand off when her parents woo,
And only to their suits be coy:
For she whom jointure can obtain,
To let a fop her bed enjoy,
Is but a lawful wench for gain.
Prue. Your father calls for you, miss. [Steps to the door.
Hip. I come, I come; I must be obedient as long as I am with him.
[Pausing.
Our parents who restrain our liberty,
But take the course to make us sooner free,
Though all we gain be but new slavery;
We leave our fathers, and to husbands flee.
[Exeunt.

ACT THE THIRD.

 SCENE I.—Don Diego's House.

Enter Monsieur de Paris, Hippolita, and Prue.

Mons. Serviteur, serviteur, la cousine. Your maid told me she
watched at the stair-foot for my coming; because you had a mind to
speak wit me before I saw your fader, it seem.
Hip. I would so, indeed, cousin.
Mons. Or-ça! or-ça! I know your affair. It is to tell me wat recreation
you ade with Monsieur Gerrard. But did he come? I was afrait he
would not come.
Hip. Yes, yes, he did come.
Mons. Ha! ha! ha!—and were you not infiniment divertisee and
please? Confess.
Hip. I was indeed, cousin, I was very well pleased.
Mons. I do tinke so. I did tinke to come and be divertisee myself this
morning with the sight of his reception: but I did rancounter last
night wit dam company dat keep me up so late, I could not rise in
de morning, malepeste de putains!—
Hip. Indeed, we wanted you here mightily, cousin.
Mons. To elpe you to laugh: for if I adde been here, I had made
such recreation wit dat coxcomb Gerrard!
Hip. Indeed, cousin, you need not have any subject property to
make one laugh, you are so pleasant yourself; and when you are but
alone, you would make one burst.
Mons. Am I so happy, cousin, then, in the bon quality of making
people laugh?
Hip. Mighty happy, cousin.
Mons. De grace?
Hip. Indeed.
Mons. Nay, sans vanité, I observe, wheresoe'er I come, I make
everybody merry; sans vanité—da—
Hip. I do believe you do.
Mons. Nay, as I marche in de street, I can make de dull apprenty
laugh and sneer.
Hip. This fool, I see, is as apt as an ill poet to mistake the contempt
and scorn of people for applause and admiration. [Aside.
Mons. Ah, cousin, you see what it is to have been in France! Before I
went into France, I could get nobody to laugh at me, ma foi!
Hip. No? truly, cousin, I think you deserved it before; but you are
improved, indeed, by going into France.
Mons. Ay, ay, the French education make us propre à tout. Beside,
cousin, you must know, to play the fool is the science in France, and
I didde go to the Italian academy at Paris thrice a-week to learn to
play de fool of Signior Scaramouche,[60] who is the most excellent
personage in the world for dat noble science. Angel is a dam English
fool to him.
Hip. Methinks, now, Angel is a very good fool.
Mons. Naugh, naugh, Nokes is a better fool; but indeed the Englis
are not fit to be fools: here are ver few good fools. 'Tis true, you
have many a young cavalier who go over into France to learn to be
de buffoon; but for all dat, dey return but mauvais buffoon, jarni!
Hip. I'm sure, cousin, you have lost no time there.
Mons. Auh, le brave Scaramouche!
Hip. But is it a science in France, cousin? and is there an academy
for fooling? sure none go to it but players.
Mons. Dey are comedians dat are de maîtres; but all the beau
monde go to learn, as they do here of Angel and Nokes. For if you
did go abroad into company, you would find the best almost of de
nation conning in all places the lessons which dey have learned of
the fools dere maîtres, Nokes and Angel.
Hip. Indeed!
Mons. Yes, yes, dey are de gens de qualité that practise dat science
most, and the most ambitieux; for fools and buffoons have been
always most welcome to courts, and desired in all companies. Auh,
to be de fool, de buffoon, is to be de great personage.
Hip. Fools have fortune, they say, indeed.
Mons. So say old Senèque.
Hip. Well, cousin, not to make you proud, you are the greatest fool
in England, I am sure.
Mons. Non, non, de grace; non: Nokes de comedian is a pretty man,
a pretty man for a comedian, da—
Hip. You are modest, cousin.—But lest my father should come in
presently, which he will do as soon as he knows you are here, I must
give you a caution, which 'tis fit you should have before you see
him.
Mons. Vell, vell, cousin, vat is dat?
Hip. You must know, then (as commonly the conclusion of all mirth
is sad), after I had a good while pleased myself in jesting, and
leading the poor gentleman you sent into a fool's paradise, and
almost made him believe I would go away with him, my father,
coming home this morning, came in upon us, and caught him with
me.
Mons. Malepeste!
Hip. And drew his sword upon him, and would have killed him; for
you know my father's Spanish fierceness and jealousy.
Mons. But how did he come off then, tête non?
Hip. In short, I was fain to bring him off by saying he was my
dancing-master.
Mons. Ha! ha! ha! ver good jeste.
Hip. I was unwilling to have the poor man killed, you know, for our
foolish frolic with him: but then, upon my aunt's and father's inquiry,
how he came in, and who sent him, I was forced to say you did,
desiring I should be able to dance a corant before our wedding.
Mons. A ver good jest—da—still better as better.
Hip. Now, all that I am to desire of you is, to own you sent him, that
I may not be caught in a lie.
Mons Yes, yes, a ver good jest: Gerrard a maître de danse! ha! ha!
ha!
Hip. Nay, the jest is like to be better yet; for my father himself has
obliged him now to come and teach me: so that now he must take
the dancing-master upon him, and come three or four times to me
before our wedding, lest my father, if he should come no more,
should be suspicious I had told him a lie. And, for aught I know, if
he should know, or but guess he were not a dancing-master, in his
Spanish strictness and punctilios of honour, he might kill me as the
shame and stain of his honour and family, which he talks of so
much. Now, you know the jealous cruel fathers in Spain serve their
poor innocent daughters often so; and he is more than a Spaniard.
Mons. Non, non, fear noting; I warrant you, he shall come as often
as you will to de house; and your father shall never know who he is
till we are married. But then I'll tell him all for the jest's sake.
Hip. But will you keep my counsel, dear cousin, till we are married?
Mons. Poor dear fool! I warrant thee, ma foi!
Hip. Nay, what a fool am I indeed! for you would not have me killed.
You love me too well, sure, to be an instrument of my death.
Enter Don Diego, walking gravely, a Black boy behind him; and Mrs.
Caution.
But here comes my father, remember.
Mons. I would no more tell him of it than I would tell you if I had
been with a wench, jarni! [Aside.]—She's afraid to be killed, poor
wretch, and he's a capricious, jealous fop enough to do't:—but here
he comes.—[To Hippolita.] I'll keep thy counsel, I warrant thee, my
dear soul, mon petit cœur.
Hip. Peace! peace! my father's coming this way.
Mons. Ay, but by his march he won't be near enough to hear us this
half hour, ha! ha! ha! [Don Diego walks leisurely round Monsieur,
surveying him, and shrugging up his shoulders, whilst Monsieur
makes legs and faces aside.
Don. Is that thing my cousin, sister?
Mrs. Caut. 'Tis he, sir.
Don. Cousin, I am sorry to see you—
Mons. Is that a Spanish compliment?
Don. So much disguised, cousin.
Mons. [Aside.] Oh! is it out at last, ventre?—[To Don Diego.]—
Serviteur, serviteur, à monsieur mon oncle; and I am glad to see you
here within doors, most Spanish oncle, ha! ha! ha! but I should be
sorry to see you in the streets, tête non!
Don. Why so?—would you be ashamed of me, hah—voto á St. Jago!
would you? hauh—
Mons. Ay; it may be you would be ashamed yourself, monsieur mon
oncle, of the great train you would get to wait upon your Spanish
hose, puh—the boys would follow you, and hoot at you—vert and
bleu! pardon my Franch franchise, monsieur mon oncle.
Hip. We shall have sport anon, betwixt these two contraries. [Apart
to Prue.
Don. Dost thou call me "monsieur?" voto á St. Jago!
Mons. No, I did not call you Monsieur Voto á St. Jago! Sir, I know
you are my uncle, Mr. James Formal—da—
Don. But I can hardly know you are my cousin, Mr. Nathaniel Paris.—
But call me, sir, Don Diego henceforward, look you, and no monsieur.
Call me monsieur! guarda!
Mons. I confess my error, sir; for none but a blind man would call
you monsieur, ha! ha!—But, pray, do not call me neder Paris, but de
Paris, de Paris, (s'il vous plait,) Monsieur de Paris. Call me monsieur,
and welcome, da—
Don. Monsieur de Pantaloons then, voto—
Mons. Monsieur de Pantaloons! a pretty name, a pretty name, ma
foi! da—bien trouvé de Pantaloons! how much better den your de la
Fountaines, de la Rivieres, de la Roches, and all the de's in France—
da—well; but have you not the admiration for my pantaloon, Don
Diego, mon oncle?
Don. I am astonished at them, verdaderamente, they are
wonderfully ridiculous.
Mons. Redicule! redicule! ah—'tis well you are my uncle, da—
redicule! ha—is dere any ting in the universe so gentil as de
pantaloons? any ting so ravissant as de pantaloons? Auh—I could
kneel down and varship a pair of gentil pantaloons. Vat, vat, you
would have me have de admiration for dis outward skin of your
thigh, which you call Spanish hose, fi! fi! fi!—ha! ha! ha!
Don. Dost thou deride my Spanish hose, young man, hauh?
Mons. In comparison of pantaloon, I do undervalue 'em indeed, Don
Diego, mon oncle, ha! ha! ha!
Don. Thou art then a gabacho[61] de mal gusto, look you.
Mons. You may call me vat you vill, oncle Don Diego; but I must
needs say, your Spanish hose are scurvy hose, ugly hose, lousy
hose, and stinking hose.
Don. Do not provoke me, borracho! [Puts his hand to his sword.
Mons. Indeet, as for lousy, I recant dat epithete, for dere is scarce
room in 'em for dat little animal, ha! ha! ha! but for stinking hose,
dat epithete may stand; for how can they choose but stink, since
they are so furieusement close to your Spanish tail, da?
Hip. Ha! ha! ridiculous! [Aside.
Don. Do not provoke me, I say, en hora mala! [Seems to draw.
Mons. Nay, oncle, I am sorry you are in de pation; but I must live
and die for de pantaloon against de Spanish hose, da.
Don. You are a rash young man; and while you wear pantaloons,
you are beneath my passion, voto—auh—they make thee look and
waddle (with all those gewgaw ribbons) like a great, old, fat,
slovenly water dog.
Mons. And your Spanish hose, and your nose in the air, make you
look like a great, grizzled, long Irish greyhound reaching a crust off
from a high shelf, ha! ha! ha!
Don. Bueno! bueno!
Mrs. Caut. What, have you a mind to ruin yourself and break off the
match?
Mons. Pshaw—wat do you tell me of the matche! d'ye tinke I will not
vindicate pantaloons, morbleu!
Don. [Aside.] Well, he is a lost young man, I see, and desperately
far gone in the epidemic malady of our nation, the affectation of the
worst of French vanities: but I must be wiser than him, as I am a
Spaniard. Look you, Don Diego, and endeavour to reclaim him by art
and fair means, look you, Don Diego; if not, he shall never marry my
daughter, look you, Don Diego, though he be my own sister's son,
and has two thousand five hundred seventy-three pounds sterling,
twelve shillings and twopence a year pennyrent, seguramente!—[To
Monsieur.] Come, young man, since you are so obstinate, we will
refer our difference to arbitration; your mistress, my daughter, shall
be umpire betwixt us, concerning Spanish hose and pantaloons.
Mons. Pantaloons and Spanish hose, s'il vous plait.
Don. Your mistress is the fittest judge of your dress, sure.
Mons. I know ver vel dat most of the jeunesse of England will not
change de ribband upon de crevat without de consultation of dere
maîtresse; but I am no Anglais, da—nor shall I make de reference of
my dress to any in the universe, da—I judge by any in England! tête
non! I would not be judge by any English looking-glass, jarni!
Don. Be not positivo, young man.
Mrs. Caut. Nay, pray refer it, cousin, pray do.
Mons. Non, non, your servant, your servant, aunt.
Don. But, pray, be not so positive. Come hither, daughter, tell me
which is best.
Hip. Indeed, father, you have kept me in universal ignorance, I know
nothing.
Mons. And do you tink I shall refer an affair of that consequence to a
poor young ting who have not seen the vorld, da? I am wiser than
so, voto!
Don. Well, in short, if you will not be wiser, and leave off your French
dress, stammering, and tricks, look you, you shall be a fool, and go
without my daughter, voto!
Mons. How! must I leave off my jantee French accoutrements, and
speak base Englis too, or not marry my cousin, mon oncle Don
Diego? Do not break off the match, do not; for know, I will not leave
off my pantaloon and French pronuntiation for ne'er a cousin in
England't, da.
Don. I tell you again, he that marries my daughter shall at least look
like a wise man, for he shall wear the Spanish habit; I am a Spanish
positivo.
Mons. Ver vel! ver vel! and I am a French positivo.
Don. Then I am definitivo; and if you do not go immediately into
your chamber, and put on a Spanish habit, I have brought over on
purpose for your wedding-clothes, and put off all these French
fopperies and vanidades, with all your grimaces, agreeables,
adorables, ma fois, and jarnis; I swear you shall never marry my
daughter (and by an oath by Spaniard never broken) by my whiskers
and snuff-box!
Mons. O hold! do not swear, uncle, for I love your daughter
furieusement.
Don. If you love her, you'll obey me.
Mons. Auh, wat will become of me! but have the consideration. Must
I leave off all the Franch beautés, graces, and embellisments, bote
of my person, and language? [Exeunt Hippolita, Mrs. Caution, and
Prue, laughing.
Don. I will have it so.
Mons. I am ruinne den, undonne. Have some consideration for me,
for dere is not de least ribbon of my garniture but is as dear to me
as your daughter, jarni!
Don. Then, you do not deserve her; and for that reason I will be
satisfied you love her better, or you shall not have her, for I am
positivo.
Mons. Vill you break mine arte? Pray have de consideration for me.
Don. I say again, you shall be dressed before night from top to toe
in the Spanish habit, or you shall never marry my daughter, look
you.
Mons. If you will not have de consideration for me, have de
consideration for your daughter; for she have de passionate amour
for me, and like me in dis habite bettre den in yours, da.
Don. What I have said I have said, and I am un positivo.
Mons. Will you not so mush as allow me one little French oate?
Don. No, you shall look like a Spaniard, but speak and swear like an
Englishman, look you.
Mons. Hélas! hélas! den I shall take my leave, mort! tête! ventre!
jarni! tête bleu! ventre bleu! ma foi! certes!
Don. [Calls at the door.] Pedro, Sanchez, wait upon this cavaliero
into his chamber with those things I ordered you to take out of the
trunks.—I would have you a little accustomed to your clothes before
your wedding; for, if you comply with me, you shall marry my
daughter to-morrow, look you.
Mons. Adieu then, dear pantaloon! dear belte! dear sword! dear
peruke! and dear chapeau retroussé, and dear shoe, jarni! adieu!
adieu! adieu! Hélas! hélas! hélas! will you have yet no pity?
Don. I am a Spanish positivo, look you.
Mons. And more cruel than de Spanish inquisitiono, to compel a man
to a habit against his conscience; hélas! hélas! hélas! [Exit.
Re-enter Prue with Gerrard.
Prue. Here's the dancing-master, shall I call my mistress, sir?
Don. Yes.—[Exit Prue.] O, you are as punctual as a Spaniard: I love
your punctual men; nay, I think 'tis before your time something.
Ger. Nay, I am resolved your daughter, sir, shall lose no time by my
fault.
Don. So, so, 'tis well.
Ger. I were a very unworthy man, if I should not be punctual with
her, sir.
Don. You speak honestly, very honestly, friend; and I believe a very
honest man, though a dancing-master.
Ger. I am very glad you think me so, sir.
Don. What, you are but a young man, are you married yet?
Ger. No, sir; but I hope I shall, sir, very suddenly, if things hit right.
Don. What, the old folks her friends are wary, and cannot agree with
you so soon as the daughter can?
Ger. Yes, sir, the father hinders it a little at present; but the daughter,
I hope, is resolved, and then we shall do well enough.
Don. What! you do not steal her, according to the laudable custom
of some of your brother dancing-masters?
Ger. No, no, sir; steal her, sir! steal her! you are pleased to be merry,
sir, ha! ha! ha!—[Aside.] I cannot but laugh at that question.
Don. No, sir, methinks you are pleased to be merry, but you say the
father does not consent?
Ger. Not yet, sir; but 'twill be no matter whether he does or no.
Don. Was she one of your scholars? if she were, 'tis a hundred to
ten but you steal her.
Ger. [Aside.] I shall not be able to hold laughing. [Laughs.
Don. Nay, nay, I find by your laughing you steal her: she was your
scholar; was she not?
Ger. Yes, sir, she was the first I ever had, and may be the last too;
for she has a fortune (if I can get her) will keep me from teaching to
dance any more.
Don. So, so, then she is your scholar still it seems, and she has a
good portion; I'm glad on't; nay, I knew you stole her.
Ger. [Aside.] My laughing may give him suspicions, yet I cannot
hold. [Laughs.
Don. What! you laugh, I warrant, to think how the young baggage
and you will mump the poor old father! but if all her dependence for
a fortune be upon the father, he may chance to mump you both and
spoil the jest.
Ger. I hope it will not be in his power, sir, ha! ha! ha!—[Aside.] I shall
laugh too much anon.—[To Don Diego.] Pray, sir, be pleased to call
for your daughter, I am impatient till she comes, for time was never
more precious with me, and with her too; it ought to be so, sure,
since you say she is to be married to-morrow.
Don. She ought to bestir her, as you say, indeed. Wuh, daughter!
daughter! Prue! Hippolita! come away, child, why do you stay so
long? [Calls at the door.
Re-enter Hippolita, Prue, and Mrs. Caution.
Hip. Your servant, master; indeed I am ashamed you have stayed for
me.
Ger. O, good madam, 'tis my duty; I know you came as soon as you
could.
Hip. I knew my father was with you, therefore I did not make
altogether so much haste as I might; but if you had been alone,
nothing should have kept me from you. I would not have been so
rude as to have made you stay a minute for me, I warrant you.
Don. Come, fiddle faddle, what a deal of ceremony there is betwixt
your dancing-master and you, cuerno!—
Hip. Lord, sir! I hope you'll allow me to show my respect to my
master, for I have a great respect for my master.
Ger. And I am very proud of my scholar, and am a very great
honourer of my scholar.
Don. Come, come, friend, about your business, and honour the king.
—[To Mrs. Caution.] Your dancing-masters and barbers are such
finical, smooth-tongued, tattling fellows; and if you set 'em once a-
talking, they'll ne'er a-done, no more than when you set 'em a-
fiddling: indeed, all that deal with fiddles are given to impertinency.
Mrs. Caut. Well, well, this is an impertinent fellow, without being a
dancing-master. He is no more a dancing-master than I am a maid.
Don. What! will you still be wiser than I? voto!—Come, come, about
with my daughter, man.
Prue. So he would, I warrant you, if your worship would let him
alone.
Don. How now, Mrs. Nimblechaps!
Ger. Well, though I have got a little canting at the dancing-school
since I was here, yet I do all so bunglingly, he'll discover me. [Aside
to Hippolita.
Hip. [Aside.] Try.—[Aloud.] Come take my hand, master.
Mrs. Caut. Look you, brother, the impudent harlotry gives him her
hand.
Don. Can he dance with her without holding her by the hand?
Hip. Here, take my hand, master.
Ger. I wish it were for good and all. [Aside to her.
Hip. You dancing-masters are always so hasty, so nimble.
Don. Voto á St. Jago! not that I see; about with her, man.
Ger. Indeed, sir, I cannot about with her as I would do, unless you
will please to go out a little, sir; for I see she is bashful still before
you, sir.
Don. Hey, hey, more fooling yet! come, come, about, about with her.
Hip. Nay, indeed, father, I am ashamed, and cannot help it.
Don. But you shall help it, for I will not stir. Move her, I say.—Begin,
hussy, move when he'll have you.
Prue. I cannot but laugh at that, ha! ha! ha! [Aside.
Ger. [Apart to Hippolita.] Come, then, madam, since it must be so, let
us try; but I shall discover all.—One, two, and coupee.
Mrs. Caut. Nay, d'ye see how he squeezes her hand, brother! O the
lewd villain!
Don. Come, move, I say, and mind her not.
Ger. One, two, three, four, and turn round.
Mrs. Caut. D'ye see again? he took her by the bare arm.
Don. Come, move on, she's mad.
Ger. One, two, and a coupee.
Don. Come, one, two, and turn out your toes.
Mrs. Caut. There, there, he pinched her by the thigh: will you suffer
it?
Ger. One, two, three, and fall back.
Don. Fall back, fall back, back; some of you are forward enough to
back.
Ger. Back, madam.
Don. Fall back, when he bids you, hussy.
Mrs. Caut. How! how! fall back, fall back! marry, but she shall not fall
back when he bids her.
Don. I say she shall.—Huswife, come.
Ger. She will, she will, I warrant you, sir, if you won't be angry with
her.
Mrs. Caut. Do you know what he means by that now? You a
Spaniard!
Don. How's that? I not a Spaniard! say such a word again—
Ger. Come forward, madam, three steps again.
Mrs. Caut. See, see, she squeezes his hand now: O the debauched
harlotry!
Don. So, so, mind her not; she moves forward pretty well; but you
must move as well backward as forward, or you'll never do anything
to purpose.
Mrs. Caut. Do you know what you say, brother, yourself, now? are
you at your beastliness before your young daughter?
Prue. Ha! ha! ha!
Don. How now, mistress, are you so merry?—Is this your staid maid
as you call her, sister Impertinent?
Ger. I have not much to say to you, miss; but I shall not have an
opportunity to do it, unless we can get your father out. [Aside to
Hippolita.
Don. Come, about again with her.
Mrs. Caut. Look you there, she squeezes his hand hard again.
Hip. Indeed, and indeed, father, my aunt puts me quite out: I cannot
dance while she looks on for my heart, she makes me ashamed and
afraid together.
Ger. Indeed, if you would please to take her out, sir, I am sure I
should make my scholar do better, than when you are present, sir.
Pray, sir, be pleased for this time to take her away; for the next time,
I hope I shall order it so, we shall trouble neither of you.
Mrs. Caut. No, no, brother, stir not, they have a mind to be left
alone. Come, there's a beastly trick in't; he's no dancing-master, I
tell you.
Ger. Damned jade! she'll discover us. [Aside to Hippolita.
Don. What, will you teach me? nay, then I will go out, and you shall
go out too, look you.
Mrs. Caut. I will not go out, look you.
Don. Come, come, thou art a censorious wicked woman, and you
shall disturb them no longer.
Mrs. Caut. What! will you bawd for your daughter?
Don. Ay, ay; come go out, out, out.
Mrs. Caut. I will not go out, I will not go out; my conscience will not
suffer me, for I know by experience what will follow.
Ger. I warrant you, sir, we'll make good use of our time when you
are gone.
Mrs. Caut. Do you hear him again? don't you know what he means?
[Exit Don Diego thrusting Mrs. Caution out.
Hip. 'Tis very well!—you are a fine gentleman to abuse my poor
father so.
Ger. 'Tis but by your example, miss.
Hip. Well, I am his daughter, and may make the bolder with him, I
hope.
Ger. And I am his son-in-law, that shall be; and therefore may claim
my privilege too of making bold with him, I hope.
Hip. Methinks you should be contented in making bold with his
daughter (for you have made very bold with her) sure.
Ger. I hope I shall make bolder with her yet.
Hip. I do not doubt your confidence, for you are a dancing-master.
Ger. Why, miss, I hope you would not have me a fine, senseless,
whining, modest lover; for modesty in a man is as ill as the want of
it in a woman.
Hip. I thank you for that, sir, now you have made bold with me
indeed; but if I am such a confident piece, I am sure you made me
so: if you had not had the confidence to come in at the window, I
had not had the confidence to look upon a man: I am sure I could
not look upon a man before.
Ger. But that I humbly conceive, sweet miss, was your father's fault,
because you had not a man to look upon. But, dearest miss, I do not
think you confident, you are only innocent; for that which would be
called confidence, nay impudence, in a woman of years, is called
innocency in one of your age; and the more impudent you appear,
the more innocent you are thought.
Hip. Say you so? has youth such privileges? I do not wonder then,
most women seem impudent, since it is to be thought younger than
they are, it seems. But indeed, master, you are as great an
encourager of impudence, I see, as if you were a dancing-master in
good earnest.
Ger. Yes, yes, a young thing may do anything; may leap out of the
window and go away with her dancing master, if she please.
Hip. So, so, the use follows the doctrine very suddenly.
Ger. Well, dearest, pray let us make the use we should of it; lest
your father should make too bold with us, and come in before we
would have him.
Hip. Indeed, old relations are apt to take that ill-bred freedom of
pressing into young company at unseasonable hours.
Ger. Come, dear miss, let me tell you how I have designed matters;
for in talking of anything else we lose time and opportunity. People
abroad indeed say, the English women are the worst in the world in
using an opportunity, they love tittle-tattle and ceremony.
Hip. 'Tis because, I warrant, opportunities are not so scarce here as
abroad, they have more here than they can use; but let people
abroad say what they will of English women, because they do not
know 'em, but what say people at home?
Ger. Pretty innocent! ha! ha! ha!—Well, I say you will not make use
of your opportunity.
Hip. I say, you have no reason to say so yet.
Ger. Well then, anon at nine of the clock at night I'll try you: for I
have already bespoke a parson, and have taken up the three back-
rooms of the tavern, which front upon the gallery-window, that
nobody may see us escape; and I have appointed (precisely betwixt
eight and nine of the clock when it is dark) a coach and six to wait
at the tavern-door for us.
Hip. A coach and six! a coach and six, do you say? nay, then I see
you are resolved to carry me away; for a coach and six, though
there were not a man but the coachman with it, would carry away
any young girl of my age in England:—a coach and six!
Ger. Then you will be sure to be ready to go with me?
Hip. What young woman of the town could ever say no to a coach
and six, unless it were going into the country?—A coach and six! 'tis
not in the power of fourteen years old to resist it.
Ger. You will be sure to be ready?
Hip. You are sure 'tis a coach and six?
Ger. I warrant you, miss.
Hip. I warrant you then they'll carry us merrily away:—a coach and
six!
Ger. But have you charmed your cousin the monsieur (as you said
you would) that he in the mean time say nothing to prevent us?
Hip. I warrant you.
Re-enter Don Diego; Mrs. Caution pressing in after him.
Mrs. Caut. I will come in.
Don. Well, I hope by this time you have given her full instructions;
you have told her what and how to do, you have done all.
Ger. We have just done indeed, sir.
Hip. Ay, sir, we have just done, sir.
Mrs. Caut. And I fear just undone, sir.
Ger. D'ye hear that damned witch? [Aside to Hippolita.
Don. Come, leave your censorious prating; thou hast been a false,
right woman thyself in thy youth, I warrant you.
Mrs. Caut. I right! I right! I scorn your words, I'd have you to know,
and 'tis well known. I right! no, 'tis your dainty minx, that Jillflirt,
your daughter here, that is right; do you see how her handkerchief
is ruffled, and what a heat she's in?
Don. She has been dancing.
Mrs. Caut. Ay, ay, Adam and Eve's dance, or the beginning of the
world; d'ye see how she pants?
Don. She has not been used to motion.
Mrs. Caut. Motion! motion! motion d'ye call it? no indeed, I kept her
from motion till now: motion with a vengeance!
Don. You put the poor bashful girl to the blush, you see, hold your
peace.
Mrs. Caut. 'Tis her guilt, not her modesty, marry!
Don. Come, come, mind her not, child.—Come, master, let me see
her dance now the whole dance roundly together; come, sing to her.
Ger. Faith; we shall be discovered after all; you know I cannot sing a
note, miss. [Aside to Hippolita.
Don. Come, come, man.
Hip. Indeed, father, my master's in haste now; pray let it alone till
anon at night, when, you say, he is to come again, and then you
shall see me dance it to the violin; pray stay till then, father.
Don. I will not be put off so; come, begin.
Hip. Pray, father.
Don. Come, sing to her; come, begin.
Ger. Pray, sir, excuse me till anon, I am in some haste.
Don. I say, begin, I will not excuse you: come, take her by the hand,
and about with her.
Mrs. Caut. I say, he shall not take her by the hand, he shall touch
her no more; while I am here, there shall be no more squeezing and
tickling her palm. Good Mr. Dancing-master, stand off. [Thrusts
Gerrard away.
Don. Get you out, Mrs. Impertinence.—[To Gerrard.] Take her by the
hand, I say.
Mrs. Caut. Stand off, I say. He shall not touch her, he has touched
her too much already.
Don. If patience were not a Spanish virtue, I would lay it aside now:
I say, let 'em dance.
Mrs. Caut. I say, they shall not dance.
Hip. Pray, father, since you see my aunt's obstinacy, let us alone till
anon, when you may keep her out.
Don. Well then, friend, do not fail to come.
Hip. Nay, if he fail me at last—
Don. Be sure you come, for she's to be married to-morrow:—do you
know it?
Ger. Yes, yes, sir.—Sweet scholar, your humble servant, till night; and
think in the mean time of the instructions I have given you, that you
may be the readier when I come.
Don. Ay, girl, be sure you do,—and do you be sure to come.
Mrs. Caut. You need not be so concerned, he'll be sure to come I
warrant you; but if I could help it, he should never set foot again in
the house.
Don. You would frighten the poor dancing-master from the house,—
but be sure you come for all her.
Ger. Yes, sir.—[Aside.] But this jade will pay me when I am gone.
Mrs. Caut. Hold, hold, sir, I must let you out, and I wish I could keep
you out. He a dancing-master! he's a chouse, a cheat, a mere cheat,
and that you'll find.
Don. I find any man a cheat! I cheated by any man! I scorn your
words.—I that have so much Spanish care, circumspection, and
prudence, cheated by a man! Do you think I, who have been in
Spain, look you, and have kept up my daughter a twelve month, for
fear of being cheated of her, look you? I cheated of her!
Mrs. Caut. Well, say no more. [Exeunt Don Diego, Hippolita, Mrs.
Caution, and Prue.
Ger. Well, old Formality, if you had not kept up your daughter, I am
sure I had never cheated you of her.
The wary fool is by his care betrayed,
As cuckolds by their jealousy are made.
[Exit.

ACT THE FOURTH.

SCENE I.—A Room in Don Diego's House.

Enter Monsieur de Paris without a peruke, with a Spanish hat, a

Spanish doublet, stockings, and shoes, but in pantaloons, a waist-
belt, and a Spanish dagger in it, and a cravat about his neck.—
Hippolita and Prue behind laughing.
Mons. To see wat a fool love do make of one, jarni! It do
metamorphose de brave man in de beast, de sot, de animal.
Hip. Ha! ha! ha!
Mons. Nay, you may laugh, 'tis ver vell, I am become as ridicule for
you as can be, morbleu! I have deform myself into a ugly Spaniard.
Hip. Why, do you call this disguising yourself like a Spaniard, while
you wear pantaloons still, and the cravat?
Mons. But is here not the double doublet, and the Spanish dagger
aussi?
Hip. But 'tis as long as the French sword, and worn like it. But
where's your Spanish beard, the thing of most consequence?
Mons. Jarni! do you tink beards are as easy to be had as in the
playhouses? non; but if here be no the ugly long Spanish beard,
here are, I am certain, the ugly long Spanish ear.
Hip. That's very true, ha! ha! ha!
Mons. Auh de ingrate, dat de woman is! wen we poor men are your
gallants, you laugh at us yourselves, and wen we are your husband,
you make all the world laugh at us, jarni!—Love, dam love, it makes
the man more ridicule, than poverty, poetry, or a new title of honour,
jarni!
Enter Don Diego and Mrs. Caution.
Don. What! at your jarnis still? voto!
Mons. Why, oncle, you are at your votos still.
Don. Nay, I'll allow you to be at your votos too, but not to make the
incongruous match of Spanish doublet, and French pantaloons.
[Holding his hat before his pantaloons.
Mons. Nay, pray, dear oncle, let me unite France and Spain; 'tis the
mode of France now, jarni, voto!
Don. Well, I see I must pronounce: I told you, if you were not
dressed in the Spanish habit to-night, you should not marry my
daughter to-morrow, look you.
Mons. Well! am I not habillé in de Spanish habit? my doublet, ear
and hat, leg and feet, are Spanish, that dey are.
Don. I told you I was a Spanish positivo, voto!
Mons. Will you not spare my pantaloon! begar, I will give you one
little finger to excuse my pantaloon, da—
Don. I have said, look you.
Mons. Auh, cher pantaloons! Speak for my pantaloons, cousin. My
poor pantaloons are as dear to me as de scarf to de countree
capitane, or de new-made officer: therefore have de compassion for
my pantaloons, Don Diego, mon oncle. Hélas! hélas! hélas! [Kneels.
Don. I have said, look you, your dress must be Spanish, and your
language English: I am un positivo.
Mons. And must speak base good English too! Ah! la pitié! hélas!
Don. It must be done; and I will see this great change ere it be
dark, voto!—Your time is not long; look to't, look you.
Mons. Hélas! hélas! hélas! dat Espagne should conquer la France in
England! Hélas! hélas! hélas! [Exit.
Don. You see what pains I take to make him the more agreeable to
you, daughter.
Hip. But indeed, and indeed, father, you wash the blackamoor white,
in endeavouring to make a Spaniard of a monsieur, nay, an English
monsieur too; consider that, father: for when once they have taken
the French plie (as they call it) they are never to be made so much
as Englishmen again, I have heard say.
Don. What! I warrant you are like the rest of the young silly
baggages of England, that like nothing but what is French? You
would not have him reformed, you would have a monsieur to your
husband, would you, cuerno?
Hip. No, indeed, father, I would not have a monsieur to my husband;
not I indeed: and I am sure you'll never make my cousin otherwise.
Don. I warrant you.
Hip. You can't, you can't indeed, father: and you have sworn, you
know, he shall never have me, if he does not leave off his
monsieurship. Now, as I told you, 'tis as hard for him to cease being
a monsieur, as 'tis for you to break a Spanish oath; so that I am not
in any great danger of having a monsieur to my husband.
Don. Well, but you shall have him for your husband, look you.
Hip. Then you will break your Spanish oath.
Don. No, I will break him of his French tricks; and you shall have him
for your husband, cuerno!
Hip. Indeed and indeed, father, I shall not have him.
Don. Indeed you shall, daughter.
Hip. Well, you shall see, father.
Mrs. Caut. No, I warrant you, she will not have him, she'll have her
dancing-master rather: I know her meaning, I understand her.
Welcome to our website – the perfect destination for book lovers and
knowledge seekers. We believe that every book holds a new world,
offering opportunities for learning, discovery, and personal growth.
That’s why we are dedicated to bringing you a diverse collection of
books, ranging from classic literature and specialized publications to
self-development guides and children's books.

More than just a book-buying platform, we strive to be a bridge

connecting you with timeless cultural and intellectual values. With an
elegant, user-friendly interface and a smart search system, you can
quickly find the books that best suit your interests. Additionally,
our special promotions and home delivery services help you save time
and fully enjoy the joy of reading.

Join us on a journey of knowledge exploration, passion nurturing, and

personal growth every day!

ebookbell.com