Enter Antonio. Isabella weeps.
Ant. What, in Tears, Isabella? what is’t can force that tribute from your Eyes?
Isa. A Trifle, hardly worth the naming, your self.—
Ant. Do I? pray, for what Sin of mine must your fair Eyes be punish’d?
Isa. For the Sin of your odious Addresses to me, I have told you my mind often enough, methinks your Equals should be fitter for you, and sute more with your Plebeian Humour.
Ant. My Equals! ‘Tis true, you are fair; but if there be any Inequality in our births, the advantage is on my side.
Isa. Saucy Impertinent, you shew your City breeding; you understand what’s due to Ladys! you understand your Pen and Ink, how to count your dirty Money, trudge to and fro chaffering of base commodities, and cozening those you deal with, till you sweat and stink again like an o’er heated Cook, faugh, I smell him hither.
Ant. I must confess I am not perfum’d as you are, to stifle Stinks you commonly have by Nature; but I have wholesom, cleanly Linen on; and for my Habit wore I but a Sword, I see no difference between your Don and me, only, perhaps, he knows less how to use it.
Isa. Ah, name not a Don, the very sound from the Mouth of a little Cit is disagreeable—Bargain and Sale, Bills, Money, Traffick, Trade, are words become you better.
Jac. Well said, use him scurvily that Mrs. Clara may have him. [Aside.