Min. No, sir, I can't hush—a saint could not bear it. I am tired of her tyranny, and must quit her service.
Cæsar. Then quit it in a moment—go to my steward, and receive your wages—go—begone. 'Tis a cousin of my daughter's she is speaking of.
Min. A cousin, sir!—No, 'tis Donna Olivia, your daughter—my mistress. Oh, sir! you seem to be a sweet, tender-hearted young gentleman—'twould move you to pity if——[To Garcia.]
Cæsar. I'll move you, hussy, to some purpose, if you don't move off.
Gar. I am really confounded—can the charming Olivia——
Cæsar. Spite, sir—mere malice! my daughter has refused her some cast gown, or some—
Olivia. [Without, r.] Where is she?—Where is Minette?
Cæsar. Oh, 'tis all over!—the tempest is coming.
Enter Olivia, r.
Oliv. Oh, you vile creature!—to speak to me!—to answer me!—am I made to be answered?