Elv. With the King! You must be drunk, Vicente.
Vic. I only wish I was.
Elv. But what has the King done?
Vic. Why let me be beaten at least fifty thousand times, without caring a jot: and now forsooth, because an old fellow gets a little push, his eyes flash axe and gibbet. Then, Elvira, I’m very angry with you.
Elv. And why with me?
Vic. Because, desperately in love with me as you are, you never serenade me, nor write me a billet-doux, nor ask me for a kiss of my fair hand.
Elv. Have I not told you, sir, I leave that all to Beatrice?
Vic. And have I not told you, Beatrice may go hang for me?
Elv. Oh, Vicente, could I believe you!
Vic. Come, give me a kiss on credit of it; in case I lie, I’ll pay you back.