Vin. Da capo, madam, da capo! a Jew's-harp!
Oliv. Bless me, sir, don't I tell you so? Violins chill me; clarionets, by sympathy, hurt my lungs; and, instead of maintaining a band under my roof, I would not keep a servant, who knew a bassoon from a flute, or could tell whether he heard a jigg, or a canzonetta.
Cæsar. Oh thou perverse one! you know you love concerts—you know you do. [In great agitation.]
Oliv. I detest them! It's vulgar custom that attaches people to the sound of fifty different instruments at once; 'twould be as well to talk on the same subject, in fifty different tongues. A band; 'tis a mere olio of sound! I'd rather listen to a three-stringed guitar serenading a sempstress in some neighbouring garret.
Cæsar. Oh you——Don Vincentio, [Crosses, c.] this is nothing but perverseness, wicked perverseness. Hussy!—didn't you shake, when you mentioned a garret? didn't bread and water, and a step-mother, come into your head at the same time?
Vin. Piano, piano, good sir! Spare yourself all farther trouble. Should the Princess of Guzzarat, and all her diamond mines, offer themselves, I would not accept them, in lieu of my band—a band, that has half ruined me to collect. I would have allowed Donna Olivia a blooming garden in winter; I would even have procured barrenness and snow for her in the dog-days; but, to have my band insulted!—to have my knowledge in music slighted!—to be roused from all the energies of composition, by the drone of a Jew's-harp, I cannot breathe under the idea.
Cæsar. Then—then you refuse her, sir!
Vin. I cannot use so harsh a word—I take my leave of the lady.—Adieu, madam—I leave you to enjoy your solos, whilst I fly to the raptures of a crash.
[Exit, l.
[Cæsar goes up to her, and looks her in the face; then goes off without speaking, l.