Don John. Give us Chairs, and leave the Room.
Lop. If this old Fellow comes to quarrel with us too, he'll at least do us less harm.
[Aside.
Don Fel. Won't you retire, Friend?
[Looking behind.
Don John. Be gone, Sirrah.
Lop. aside.] Pox take ye——you old Prig, you: But I shall be even with you.
[Lopez hides himself.
Don Fel. You know me, Sir?
Don John. I do, Sir.