Alon. Not so miserable as you believe. Come, come, you shall marry Clarinda.
Mar. ’Tis impossible.
Alon. Where’s the hindrance?
Mar. Her want of Fortune; that’s enough, Friend.
Alon. Stand by and expect the best— [Goes to Ambrosio.
Sir, I have an humble Suit to you.
Amb. I shall be infinitely pleas’d you could ask me any thing in my Power; but, Sir, this Daughter I had dispos’d of, before I knew you would have mist of Hippolyta.
Alon. Luckier than I expected. [Aside.
Sir, that was an Honour I could not merit, and am contented with my Fate: But my Request is, that you would receive into your Family a Sister of mine, whom I would bestow on Don Marcel.
Mar. Hah, what mean you, Sir? a Sister of yours?