Fran. Young, what shou’d such an old doting Coxcomb as I do with a young Wife? Pox on him for a Heathen Whoremaster.
Car. Old is she then?
Fran. Ay, very old, an’t please your Gloriousness.
Car. Is she not capable of Love?
Fran. Hum, so, so,—like Fire conceal’d in a Tinderbox,—I shall run mad.
Car. Is she witty?
Fran. I’m no competent Judge, an’t like your Holiness, —This Catechism was certainly of the Devil’s own making. [Aside.
Enter Guzman, bringing in Julia, Clara, Isabella, Jacinta,
Guiliom, Antonio, &c. Women veil’d.
Car. These, Sir, are all the Slaves of Note are taken.
Isa. Dost think, Jacinta, he’ll chuse me?