Enter Isabella, her Train borne by the great Page, Guiliom, with the other great Page, and Francisco bare.
—Joy to my noble Lord, and you, fair Isabella!
Isa. Thank thee, Fellow,—but, surely, I deserved my Titles from thee.
Cla. Your Honour I hope will pardon him.
Isa. How now, Clara! [Nodding to her.
Jac. I give your Honour joy.
Isa. Thank thee, poor Creature.—
Fran. My Lord, this Honour you have done my Daughter is so signal, that whereas I designed her but five thousand Pound, I will this happy day settle on her ten.
Guil. Damn dirty trash, your Beauty is sufficient—hum —Signior Don Antonio, get the Writings ready. [Aside. Money—hang Money.
Fran. How generous these Lords are; nay, my Lord, you must not refuse a Father’s Love, if I may presume to call you Son—I shall find enough besides for my Ransom, if the Tyrant be so unmerciful to ask more than my Wife pays him.