Car. How, are you not to marry his Daughter, Isabella?
Ant. Not if I can help it, Sir,—the Honour you have done me in your Friendship to me, a Person so much above me in Title and Birth, makes me think it my Duty to conceal no part of my Heart to you,—Know then this Isabella, Daughter to old Francisco, and your Cuckold that shall be I hope, is, though fair, most ridiculously proud, vain and fantastical; as all of her Birth and Education, grown rich, are.
Car. Prithee, what was her Birth?
Ant. Why, her Father, old Francisco, was in his youth an English Cordwainer, that is to say, a Shoemaker, which he improv’d in time to a Merchant; and the Devil and his Knavery helping him to a considerable Estate, he set up for Gentleman; and being naturally a stingey, hide-bound Rascal, and in the Humour of Jealousy even out-doing the most rigid of us Spaniards, he came over into Spain, to settle with his whole Family, where his Wife dying, to heighten the Vice, marries this young Julia, your Mistress, Sir;—and now this Daughter of his having wholly forgot her original Dunghill, sets up for a Viscountess at least, though her Father has design’d me the Blessing; but I have fixt my Heart and Eyes else-where, Clara, the young Sister of your Mistress, Sir, commands my Liberty.
Car. I’ve seen her, she has Youth and Beauty capable to make a Conquest any where,—but does she know your Love?
Ant. She does, and makes me think my Love return’d.
Car. Then know, Antonio, I must be your Rival.
Ant. How, Sir!
Car. You said but now you were my Friend, Antonio; If true, you must assist in my design.
Ant. I listen, Sir, impatiently.