Lop. A bargain, if the Conde comes not on.
San. Then, as he comes on, I must go off, with a pox to you and to your daughter!
Dal. At least it shall not be a pox of your giving.
San. The Conde's pox take you then! that's an honourable pox, descended in a right line from Don Roderic the Goth, I'll warrant you.
Lop. Indeed, if your estate were as great as his—
San. Nay, for that matter, I can drop gold with him, as little as I care for her.
Dal. But then his title?
San. I have more gold yet, to weigh down his parchment: and then my wit against a Conde's wit; that's for overplus; for, though I say it—
Lop. Who should not say it—