Min. So! now, then, in one word,—here it goes. Though every body supposes my lady an arrant scold, she's no more a——[Looking out.]
Don Cæsar. [Without, l.] Out upon't e—h—h!
Min. Oh, St. Gerome!—here is her father, and his privy counsellor, Gasper. I can never communicate a secret in quiet. Well! come to my chamber, for, now my hand's in, you shall have the whole.—I would not keep it another day to be confidant to an infanta.
[Exeunt, r.
Enter Don Cæsar and Gasper, l.
Gasp. Take comfort, sir; take comfort.
Cæsar. Take it;—why, where the devil shall I find it? You may say, take physic, sir, or, take poison, sir——they are to be had; but what signifies bidding me take comfort, when I can neither buy it, beg it, nor steal it?
Gasp. But patience will bring it, sir.
Cæsar. 'Tis false, sirrah.—Patience is a cheat, and the man that ranked her with the cardinal virtues was a fool. I have had patience at bed and board these three long years, but the comfort she promised, has never called in with a civil how d'ye?
Gasp. Ay, sir, but you know the poets say that the twin sister and companion of comfort is good humour. Now if you would but drop that agreeable acidity, which is so conspicuous——