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.