Cæsar. [Aside.] By St. Antony, he is as mad as she is!
Vin. What say you, Don Cæsar? Olivia, and her winter garden, and I and my music.
Oliv. Music, did you say? Music! I am passionately fond of that!
Cæsar. She has saved my life! I thought she was going to knock down his hobby-horse. [Aside.]
Vin. You enchant me! I have the finest band in Madrid—My first violin draws a longer bow than Giardini; my clarionets, my viol de gamba——Oh, you shall have such concerts!
Oliv. Concerts! Pardon me there—My passion is a single instrument.
Vin. That's carrying singularity very far indeed! I love a crash; so does every body of taste.
Oliv. But my taste isn't like every body's; my nerves are so particularly fine, that more than one instrument overpowers them.
Vin. Pray tell me the name of that one: I am sure it must be the most elegant and captivating in the world.—I am impatient to know it.—We'll have no other instrument in Spain, and I will study to become its master, that I may woo you with its music. Charming Olivia! tell me, is it a harpsichord? a piano forte? a pentachord? a harp?
Oliv. You have it, you have it; a harp—yes, a Jew's-harp is, to me, the only instrument. Are you not charmed with the delightful h—u—m of its base, running on the ear, like the distant rumble of a state coach? It presents the idea of vastness and importance to the mind. The moment you are its master—I'll give you my hand.