Oliv. A marked character you admire; so do I, I dote on it.—I would not resemble the rest of the world in any thing.
Vin. My taste to the fiftieth part of a crotchet!—We shall agree admirably when we are married!
Oliv. And that will be unlike the rest of the world, and therefore, charming!
Cæsar. [Aside.] It will do! I have hit her humour at last. Why didn't this young dog offer himself before?
Oliv. I believe, I have the honour to carry my taste that way, farther than you, Don Vincentio. Pray, now, what is your usual style in living?
Vin. My winters I spend in Madrid, as other people do. My summers I drawl through at my castle——
Oliv. As other people do!—and yet you pretend to taste and singularity, ha! ha! ha! Good Don Vincentio, never talk of a marked character again. Go into the country in July, to smell roses and woodbines, when every body regales on their fragrance! Now, I would rusticate only in winter, and my bleak castle should be decorated with verdure and flowers, amidst the soft zephyrs of December.
Cæsar. [Aside.] Oh, she'll go too far!
Oliv. On the leafless trees I would hang green branches—the labour of silk worms, and therefore, natural; whilst my rose shrubs and myrtles should be scented by the first perfumers in Italy. Unnatural, indeed, but, therefore, singular and striking.
Vin. Oh, charming! You beat me, where I thought myself the strongest. Would they but establish newspapers here, to paragraph our singularities, we should be the most envied couple in Spain!