Spado. Ay, we'd all wish to conceal it from your master, lest it might induce him to break off the match, for I don't suppose he'd be very ready to marry into a mad family.
Don Fer. And pray, what are you, sir, in this mad family?
Spado. Don Scipio's own gentleman, these ten years—Yet, you heard him just now call me your fellow servant.—How you did stare when I accosted you as an old acquaintance!—But we always humour him—I should not have contradicted him, if he had said I was the pope's nuncio.
Don Fer. [Aside.] Oh, then I don't wonder at Dame Isabel taking advantage of his weakness.
Spado. Another new whim of his,—he has taken a fancy, that every body has got a ring from him, which, he imagines, belonged to his deceased lady.
Don Fer. True, he asked me something about a ring.
Don Scipio. [Without.] I'll wait on you presently.
Enter Don Scipio.
Don Scipio. Ha, Pedrillo, now your disguises are over, return me the ring.