Alon. [Haunce van Ezel.]
Lov. Hah! her Name too, I beseech you? [Impatiently.
Alon. Euphemia: And such a Creature ’tis—
Lov. ’Sdeath, my Sister all this while: This has call’d up all that’s Spaniard in me, and makes me raging mad. [Aside.] But do you love her, Sir?
Alon. Most desperately, beyond all Sense or Reason.
Lov. And could you be content to marry her?
Alon. Any thing but that —But thou know’st my ingagement elsewhere; and I have hopes that yet she’ll be wise, and yield on more pleasant terms.
Lov. I could be angry now; but ’twere unreasonable to blame him for this. [Aside.] Sir, I believe by your Treatment from Ambrosio and Marcel, you may come off there easily.
Alon. That will not satisfy my Honour, tho ’twill my Love; that I have not Hippolyta, I will owe to my own Inconstancy, not theirs: besides, this may be a Cheat, as you say.
Lov. But does Euphemia love you?