Oliv. Still with that smirking face?—I can't have patience.
Min. Then, madam, if you won't let me tell the story, please to read it——Here's a letter from Donna Marcella.
Oliv. Why did you not give it me at first? [Reads.]
Min. Because I didn't like to be cut out of my story. If orators were obliged to come to the point at once, mercy on us! what tropes and figures we should lose!
Oliv. Oh, Minette! I give you leave to smirk again—listen. [Reads.] I am more terrified at the idea of becoming your father's wife, than you are in expectation of a stepmother; and Don Cæsar would be as loath as either of us.—He only means to frighten you into matrimony, and I have, on certain conditions, agreed to assist him; but, whatever you may hear, or see, be assured that nothing is so impossible, as that he should become the husband of Donna Marcella.—Oh, delightful girl! how I love her for this!
Min. Yes, ma'am; and if you'd had patience, I should have told you that she's now here with Don Cæsar, in grave debate how to begin the attack; which must force you to take shelter in the arms of a husband.
Oliv. Ah, no matter how they begin it. Let them amuse themselves in raising batteries; my reserved fire shall tumble them about their ears, in the moment my poor father is singing his Io's for victory.—But here come the lovers—Well, I protest now, sixteen and sixty is a very comely sight.—'Tis contrast gives effect to every thing.—Lud! how my father ogles! I had no idea he was such a sort of man. I am really afraid he isn't quite so good as he should be!
Enter Don Cæsar, leading Marcella, l.
Cæsar. H—um! Madam looks very placid; we shall discompose her, or I am mistaken. [Apart.] So, Olivia, here's Donna Marcella come to visit you—though, as matters are, that respect is due from you.
Oliv. I am sensible of the condescension. My dear ma'am, how very good this is! [Taking her hand.]