Gar. Indeed!—perhaps you may meet a Petruchio, gentle Catherine, yet.
Oliv. But no gentle Catherine will he find me, believe it.——Catherine! why, she had not the spirit of a roasted chestnut—a few big words, an empty oath, and a scanty dinner, made her as submissive as a spaniel. My fire will not be so soon extinguished—it shall resist big words, oaths, and starving.
Min. I believe so, indeed; help the poor gentleman, I say, to whose fate you fall! [Returns up.]
Gar. Don Cæsar, adieu! My commiseration for your fate subdues the resentment I should otherwise feel at your endeavouring to deceive me into such a marriage. [Crosses, l.]
Oliv. Marriage! oh, mercy!—Is this Don Garcia! [Apart to Cæsar.]
Cæsar. Yes, termagant!
Oliv. O, what a misfortune! Why did you not tell me it was the gentleman you designed to marry me to?—Oh, sir! all that is past was in sport; a contrivance between my maid and me: I have no spirit at all—I am as patient as poverty.
Gar. This mask fits too ill on your features, fair lady: I have seen you without disguise, and rejoice in your ignorance of my name, since, but for that, my peaceful home might have become the seat of perpetual discord.
Min. Ay, sir, you would never have known what a quiet hour——[On r. of Olivia.]
Oliv. [Strikes her.] Impertinence! Indeed, sir, I can be as gentle and forbearing as a pet lamb.