We starve, without a stiver in our pockets,
While friends swarm round us, if you would, my lord,
Reveal yourself.
Juan. Shorn of my honour? No!
Leon. And I, not being shorn of appetite,
Would publish my disgraceful want of food
To all the world. There is Don Luis now,
Your ancient friend.
Juan. What friend but, if he be
True to himself and me, must be my enemy,